


your name like a song I sing to myself

by misandrywitch



Series: Folk Band AU [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (all the content the show contains, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Basically, Bipolar Disorder, Internalized Homophobia, Past Abuse, cissexist views about sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 81,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Mandy Milkovich are the two halves of indie band 'Mandy and the Misdemeanors' and, against all odds, they're pretty good. That's about all Mickey has going for him though. He's expecting to slog through another long monotonous summer, make a little money playing some gigs and pass unnecessarily hot afternoons how he always has: drinking too much and wondering halfheartedly what feels like it's missing from his life. </p><p>Until, that is, he meets a red-headed green-eyed bartender named Ian who charges into Mickey's life with a laugh, and who ensures that nothing will ever be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: i

**Author's Note:**

> so tumblr user cait queermandymilkovich and i got involved in a really long conversation the crux of which was 'what if mandy and mickey were in an indie folk band and sang pretty songs about kissing tough boys and what if ian was a bartender in the bar they play at' and that's where this comes from, i hope you like it!
> 
> COMPLETE!!!!!
> 
> shittybknights.tumblr.com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey Milkovich is not a romantic. He doesn't believe in love at first sight, or love, really at all, or exchanging bewildering and breathtaking glances with strangers across smoky crowded bars. He’s spent enough time in bars, both crowded, smoky and otherwise, to know that it just doesn't happen. Maybe, once a year. To other people.
> 
> As if to spite him, the air goes out of the room.

Mickey is in the middle of a song, in the middle of a set and in the middle of a bar when he sees him.

The crowd is enthusiastically clapping along to Mandy’s keyboard solo, and he’s following along on his guitar, getting ready to fall into the chorus when Mandy is done and glancing idly around the mostly-full room. It’s a good turnout considering they've never played in this bar before, probably because of the rain. People are paying more attention to Mandy and the Misdemeanors than they are to the bar and their drinks, which is always a good sign. Mickey glances along the bar, thinking his own beer is probably getting pretty empty and that he should make sure he gets a refill after this song, when he makes sudden and unexpected eye contact with the bartender in the corner. He’s got a shockingly red head of hair.

Mickey Milkovich is not a romantic. He doesn't believe in love at first sight, or love, really at all, or exchanging bewildering and breathtaking glances with strangers across smoky crowded bars. He’s spent enough time in bars, both crowded, smoky and otherwise, to know that it just doesn't happen. Maybe, once a year. To other people.

As if to spite him, the air goes out of the room.

And the Mandy kicks him in the ankle with one of her heavy-heeled boots, and Mickey leans up to the microphone to harmonize the chorus with her and finish up the set. There’s a great deal of cheering. A rainy night in early Chicago summer is the right atmosphere for folky indie rock music, and against all odds Mandy and Mickey Milkovich, the two halves of Mandy and the Misdemeanors, are pretty fucking good at it. Mickey puts his guitar away as Mandy chats animatedly with a few men in the crowd, all of whom walk off with CD’s in their hands. Mandy winks in his direction before turning around and smiling as she folds up her keyboard.

“You guys are fantastic!” A girl, college age probably, is talking to Mandy now. “Your lyrics are incredible.”

Mandy grins. “That’s all him, he writes ‘em all,” she jabs a thumb over her shoulder at Mickey and the girl, pretty enough with blonde bangs, grins in his direction.

“You’re fantastic,” she says, “They’re so meaningful, I feel like your songs really get me--”

“Fucking hell,” Mickey slams the guitar case closed and walks towards the bar, leaving the girl blinking in confusion.

He’s fumbling around in his wallet to check how much cash he’s got on hand when a someone grabs at his wrist and a voice says, “Hey man, no need.” Mickey blinks and looks up and it’s the red-headed bartender, who’s smiling and sliding a beer across the counter in his direction. “You guys brought a crowd out in the rain, you deserve a few rounds on us,” he says. Mickey picks up the beer glass and their fingers brush and he almost drops it. He scowls at the foam.

“My kinda gig,” he says and drinks.

“You’ve got a great sound,” the bartender says, and Mickey glances up at him again which he immediately regrets. He’s got really nice eyes. Really green.  Mickey’s heart rate rockets up to eleven. “I usually like stuff that’s a lot more upbeat, but I dig you a lot.”

“I can do upbeat,” Mickey says in spite of himself. “My cover of the ‘Party Rock Anthem’s’ a legendary party trick.”

“Does it get an accordian?”

“Nope, just a kazoo and some bongo drums.”

The bartender is still laughing when Mandy slides into the seat next to Mickey.

“It wouldn’t kill you to not be an unbelievable douchebag when people give you compliments you know,” Mandy accepts a beer, the collection of bangles on her wrists clinking against the cold glass.

“Yeah, but then I’d have to deal with them thinking I’m a nice person,” Mickey says. “It’ll ruin my image.”

“You’re in a folk rock band, own seventy plaid shirts and have that shit tattooed on your hands Mick, you’ve already done irreparable damage to your image.”

Mickey flips her off, purposefully using the hand that’s got FUCK across the knuckles.

“Certainly gets the point across,” the bartender laughs.

“That’s what happens when you get a tattoo at sixteen-- oh!” Mandy interrupts herself and leans across the table to clap the red-headed bartender on the shoulder. It shouldn’t surprise Mickey that Mandy knows him. Mandy knows everyone. “Sorry, I’m being a fucking idiot-- Ian, this is my brother Mickey. Mickey, Ian Gallagher. He’s the one who suggested we do a gig here! Which was a great idea by the way, I think we’ll definitely come back.”

“Yeah,” Mickey nods around the bar and sips his beer. “Nice place. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Same!” Ian Gallagher grins, and turns away from them to run someone’s credit card, and Mickey lets out a heavy breath.

Ian Gallagher is tall and lanky, probably nearly six feet, but still strong. He’s wearing a tank top despite the weather, and dark jeans, and he has tightly coiled muscles in his arms and long fingers. And freckles, on his shoulders and his elbows and his face. His hair is red, really red like copper wire, not blonde or brown at all. It looks soft. He’s turned back around and is talking with Mandy and Mickey hasn’t followed a single word of what they’ve said. Mandy is looking at him expectantly, tapping her fingers on the rim of her glass.

“What?” Mickey snaps.

“I said, I’m not gonna walk in this rain so are you gonna call us a cab or are you gonna carry me home?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Mickey says affectionately, and gets up to make a phone call.

They’re hauling their equipment (guitar, keyboard, a huge box of merch) up the stairs to their apartment when Mickey asks, as casually as he can muster, “So where’d you meet your friend Gallagher?”

Mandy is holding open the front door with one foot and trying to maneuver herself and her keyboard through it without much success. She kicks at one of Mickey’s sneakers lying in the way and scowls at him, then dumps the keyboard on the kitchen counter and sighs. “A while ago, I dunno. His brother used to date Karen, you know, Karen Jackson, and we ran into him at a party. Went to school with us though, actually. Why do you care?”

Mickey slams the door and slides off his jacket, shaking water out of his hair. “Thought the name sounded familiar, that’s all,” he says. It does in the way that he’s sure he’s heard that name before because half the Irish Catholic people who went to his high school were named Gallagher. “There’s a whole pile of Gallaghers that lived-- oh I don’t remember-- somewhere near home?”

“Yeah, that’s them,” Mandy kicks off her boots and tugs off her skirt and collapses on the couch with a sigh. Mickey joins her, kicking at her to scoot over and make room. “Ian’s real cool, we’ve gone out together once or twice, me and him and Karen. Why’re you so curious anyway?”

“Dunno,” Mickey flips on the TV to avoid making eye contact with his sister who is peering inquisitively in his direction. “Guess he’s kinda good looking, that’s all.”

“Ohhhhh!” Mandy crows, poking her bare feet into Mickey’s midriff. He grabs at them and manages to push her off the couch onto the floor and in retaliation Mandy gets a pillow to his face and an elbow square in his solar plexus and the topic, thankfully, is dropped.

* * *

A week later, Mandy brings Ian Gallagher home.

It’s one of the few days a week where Mickey doesn’t have work or band practice or a gig (they decided when they formed the band to hold band practice together twice a week, even though they’re almost always picking out chords and bouncing ideas off each other anyway). Mickey is sitting on the couch in his boxers watching his fourth episode of Kitchen Nightmares, scribbling down some lyrics on the back of a crumpled grocery receipt and wondering if Mandy will bother to text him that she isn’t coming home tonight either. Of the two of them Mandy is infinitely more outgoing and, despite the fact that they spend half their nights singing in bars, likes to spend her days off dancing and going out. Mickey’s always been more comfortable in the kind of bars that don’t have craft beer on tap or neon lights or theme nights, one of the Southside habits he’s been unable to shake. Watching Gordon Ramsey verbally eviscerate people is a lot more fun that accompanying Mandy on her favorite pasttime, which is convincing boys to buy her drinks and then ditching them ten minutes later. She’d gone out the night before and it’s nearly three, and Mickey is about to accept that he’ll be drinking a six pack alone when the door slams open and Mandy comes in, dumping her jacket over Mickey’s face as she goes.

“Mandy what the fuck?” Mickey tosses it off him onto the floor, and Mandy laughs. He leaps up with the intention of coming at her and getting her back, tickle her probably, when he notices there’s someone else standing in the still-open doorway. It’s Ian Gallagher, leaning against the doorframe in a hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly damp from the afternoon rain. Mickey is suddenly aware that he was just about to chase around his sister like a pair of kids through the kitchen, that he’s in his boxers and that he hasn’t shaved in two days.

“Come on in,” Mandy dashes behind Mickey’s back to usher Ian inside. She’s wearing black highwaisted shorts and a leather jacket and her hair and makeup are smudged and messy. Last night’s clothes. Something in Mickey’s stomach twists.

“Coulda warned me we have company,” he says, trying to sound only moderately annoyed. He doesn’t pull off moderately annoyed well at all. He’s better at ‘grumpy,’ ‘bored’ and ‘borderline murderous.’ Ian isn’t Mandy’s type, he says to himself. Why do you even care? he asks himself. 

“Please, cover your scrawny bod,” Mandy is rooting around in the fridge. She opens a tupperware container, makes a face and bins it, then settles on a piece of day-old-pizza. “I’m sure we’re all blinded by your pale chest. Want a beer Ian?” She tosses him one when he nods.

“Like your legs are any better after this winter,” Mickey grumbles.

“My legs look great and you’re an asshole,” Mandy says around a mouthful of pizza. “Welcome to chez Milkovich, Ian. Make yourself at home, I’m gonna go shower and change and then we can figure out what to do next!”

“Still wanna catch a movie?” Ian opens the beer bottle cap without a bottle opener by putting it flat in the palm of his right hand and twisting hard. It pops right off and Mickey is impressed. Ian puts the bottle to his mouth and Mickey can feel his whole face going hot. He yanks open the fridge as loudly as he can.

“Yeah!” Mandy shouts from their shared bathroom.

Cold air from the fridge washes over Mickey’s face and he stares into it rather desperately.

“Nice to know you famous musicians still live like the rest of us,” Ian says. Mickey sticks his head around the fridge door, and Ian is eyeing the pile of shoes behind the overstuffed sofa and grinning.

“Yeah, somehow being moderately well known in the city of Chicago isn’t enough to pull you from the ranks of the ninety nine percent,” Mickey says. Ian’s eyes light up and he laughs.

“You sound a lot different when you sing,” he says. Mickey raises an eyebrow at him. “Sweeter,” Ian says.

“I’m borrowing one of your button-ups!” Mandy shouts from the bathroom, thankfully giving Mickey an excuse to turn around at shout at her. It’s a better option than climbing straight into the refrigerator and slamming the door behind him. Mandy wins, as she usually does, and runs triumphantly out of Mickey’s bedroom in jeans and one of his plaid shirts and Mickey feels his irritation grating even harder.

“You wanna come along?” Mandy doesn’t seem to notice. “To the movies?”

“Nah,” Mickey opens the fridge again and pulls out a beer. “Don’t want to interrupt your date there, chuckles.”

“Shut up,” Mandy laughs, then starts rummaging around the living room. “Where the fuck did I put my purse?”

“I think you dropped it under your coat?” Ian says. Mandy kicks over her coat and lifts her purse triumphantly, gives Ian a high five.

“Mandy, did you throw out the fucking leftovers?” Mickey snaps at her, unable to find what he wanted to in the fridge.

“I threw out some week-old mac and cheese if that’s what you mean,” Mandy shrugs.

“I was gonna eat that!”

“No you were not, Mick, it had mold on it!”

“No it fucking didn’t!”

“Go take a nap or something,” Mandy rolls her eyes and ushers Ian out the door. “Maybe when you wake up you’ll have grown up a little bit.”

They leave the door open so Mickey slams it behind them, opens his beer and goes to take a cold shower.

* * *

 

The thing is, Mickey thinks to himself after he gets out of the shower, the thing is it’s not like he was actually going to do anything about Ian Gallagher other than think he’s good looking. It doesn’t matter whether or not Mandy’s dating him, because it isn’t like Mickey himself even would, like he even wants to.

The men Mandy dates rarely stick around for long anyway. She’s always had men’s interest and she knows it, and she usually lets them hang around her long enough to get her sex and an expensive pair of shoes and then she gets bored and ditches them for someone else. Ian Gallagher will be gone in two weeks, tops. Mickey’s not bad at picking up people either. He could go out right now and find someone willing to fuck him, if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know what he wants.

Knowing that doesn’t make Mickey feel any less pissed off, so he turns on the television again and settles for getting drunk.

 


	2. Part One: ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the major downsides of Mandy fucking around with someone, Mickey is reminded as the week progresses, is Mandy in a really good mood. Mandy wearing colors other than black. Mandy cooking. Mandy laughing into the telephone to Ian Gallagher at midnight.

Mickey has to work the next morning but when he comes home, Ian Gallagher is still in his apartment. That or he left and came back again-- he is wearing a change of clothes, workout gear or something. He waves cheerfully from the couch when Mickey comes into the apartment. Mickey slams the door to his bedroom and goes to take a shower.

When he comes out to get a beer out of the fridge, Mandy and Ian are clearing things off the kitchen table; Mandy’s telling a story Mickey is suspicious might be about him and Ian is laughing.

“-- okay, and then he hands me the tire iron, and he’s bleeding all over the floor, and he just yells, FUCKING RUN! And we fucking run! Cops never had a chance to catch up.”

“Fuck,” Ian is wiping his eyes.  

“Did you read those lyrics I left out?” Mickey asks Mandy.

“No, not yet,” she’s still laughing.

“Will you at some point in the next five years?”

“Alright, yes Mom, calm down,” Mandy snorts.

“And did you drink the last of the beer?”

“I bought more, it’s right in front of you.”

“It’s fucking PBR, Mandy. I hate PBR!”

“You do not hate PBR! You drink it all the time.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I do and don’t hate,” Mickey snarls, but he grabs the beer anyway.

“We were gonna ask you if you want to play Apples to Apples, asswipe!” Mandy says, crossing her arms.

“I hate Apples to Apples!”

“I’m changing the name of our band to ‘Mandy and the Fuckheads!’”

Mickey gives up and goes to text Svetlana. He slams his bedroom door again, just for good measure.

* * *

 

Mickey Milkovich ----> Svetlana 3:32 PM

what are u doing rn

 

Svetlana ----> Mickey Milkovich 3:34 PM

in bath. work soon. [bubble bath emoji, three smiley face emojis]

 

Mickey Milkovich ----> Svetlana 3:37 PM

mandys fuckin boyfriend wont leave our fucking apartment its driving me up the fucking wall can i come over

 

Svetlana ----> Mickey Milkovich 3:45 PM

NO! [string of russian symbols] [bubble bath emoji, snowman emoji]

 

Mickey Milkovich ---> Svetlana 3:46 PM

im coming over

 

Svetlana ---> Mickey Milkovich 3:48 PM

[ten high heel emojis] [snowman emoji]

 

Mickey Milkovich ---> Svetlana 3:50 PM

SPEAK FUCKING ENGLISH

* * *

 

Svetlana lives a few blocks away from Mandy and Mickey and works in a hair salon that’s situated halfway between her apartment and the bar Ian Gallagher works at. Her front door is open so Mickey lets himself in. Svetlana’s apartment is decked out in pinks and florals, and she is standing in her kitchen in a floral dress. She raises one perfect eyebrow when Mickey opens her door.

“What are you doing here,” she sighs in her heavily accented English. Svetlana left Russia for the States when she was a teenager through a series of circumstances Mickey still isn’t entirely clear on. She manages to sound perfectly exasperated in any language she speaks, though.

“I told you, I needed to get out of my fucking house,” Mickey says.

“And I tell you I have work!” Svetlana pats Mickey sympathetically on one arm while maneuvering around him towards the door.

“I’ll walk with you to work then.”

“You come along, you hold my purse,” Svetlana extends the bag, which is black leather with a violently pick scarf tied to the handle.

“I’m not carrying your fucking purse.”

“Then you not come along.”

“Fuck,”Mickey grabs the bag from her and stomps out the door. Svetlana locks it behind her in a very self-satisfied way. It’s actually a nice afternoon, sunny and clear. Mickey follows a few steps behind Svetlana down the busy sidewalk with her bag tucked under his arm.

“Did you know Mandy’s got a new boyfriend? You coulda warned me Mandy has a new boyfriend,” Mickey says once the sidewalk is a little less crowded and he’s able to walk abreast of her. Svetlana shrugs.

“No boyfriend I know of,” she says.

“Maybe boyfriend’s the wrong word,” Mickey acquiesces. “This guy she’s fucking around with, Gallagher someone.”

“Gallagher? Orange boy?” Svetlana glances over at Mickey and her eyebrows go up.

“Yeah, carrot top. They’re in my apartment playing fucking board games right now.”

“I don’t think orange boy is Mandy’s type. Don’t think Mandy is orange boy’s type,” Svetlana says decisively.

“Mandy doesn’t have a type. Mandy’s type is ‘willing to buy her shit.’”

“I think there are things about Mandy you not know,” Svetlana says. They’ve arrived in front of the hair salon. “Purse.” Mickey hands her the bag and glowers.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“Big tough guy not know everything in the world, big tough guy is shocked,” Svetlana winks at him. “I come over tomorrow maybe. We get drunk. Go home and be nice to your sister.”

“That’s it? That’s your great solution to the fact that I’m being driven out of my mind?”

“I work now, you go home. Unless you want haircut.”

“No!”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say big tough guy has crush,” Svetlana laughs and opens the hair salon’s door.

“You read too many romance novels,” Mickey snaps.

“You do not lie. Bye!” Svetlana steps into the salon and Mickey turns around and starts walking in the other direction, unsure of what he wants to do now. He could, he supposes, pick the lock to Svetlana’s apartment and hang out there for a while. He hasn’t even reached the next doorway when Svetlana’s voice echoes behind him.

“Milkovich!” She shouts, and he turns around. She’s sticking her head around the salon’s door and has one eyebrow raised. “You bust my lock or go into my flat, I stab you through heart with screwdriver.”

“Fuck,” Mickey says, and goes home.

* * *

 

One of the major downsides of Mandy fucking around with someone, Mickey is reminded as the week progresses, is Mandy in a really good mood. Mandy wearing colors other than black. Mandy cooking. Mandy laughing into the telephone to Ian Gallagher at midnight. Mandy playing upbeat Beatles covers on her guitar, and whistling, and singing in the shower. Ordinarily it wouldn't be a bad thing, except that they’re trying to get ready for a relatively large gig at a bar downtown they booked a few months ago, and it’s fucking with their image. Their band has never been particularly peppy. They have moments when they’re happy but they also require a certain degree of solemnity. They do not cover the Beatles. They do not wear tie dye crop tops. They do not giggle.

Mickey tells this to Mandy at band practice on Thursday morning. She flips him the bird.

“I can act however I want,” she says. “And anyway, I’m not the one slamming doors and brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“If you were a cartoon character you’d be generating little stormclouds,” Mandy rolls her eyes. They’re set up in the basement of their apartment, a chilly and soundproofed room they rent from their landlord to store their equipment and practice without bugging the entire neighborhood.

“Whatever,” Mickey snaps. “Let’s just run through everything one more time.” The gig is on Saturday and they’ve been getting ready for it for a month and a half, as far as they ever get ready for things. They play often enough and consistently enough that they don’t always have to sit down and practice, even though they do anyway. They’re good actually. Somehow. After about a year and a half of playing in tiny, shady bars for no pay they’ve achieved some moderate success, semi-regular plays on a few local radio stations, a spot in a few summer festivals, some consistent fans and regular bookings around town. It’s all Mickey could have hoped for and more. He isn’t entirely sure he wants anything more than that. They make money, some anyway. More consistently than they ever have before in their lives.

They’re good largely, Mickey knows, because of Mandy’s incomparable and random talent of being able to play practically any instrument she gets her hands on, because of the way their voices (his higher and lighter than he might like but solid and distinctive, hers with an incredible range and the ability to blend seamlessly into anything he sings) sound together. And because of his lyrics.

Mandy plinks a few notes on her keyboard and counts them in and they start singing, Mickey following Mandy’s voice. They aren’t together. Her tempo is too fast, his is lagging. She stops.

“You’re flat,” she snaps.

“You’re rushing!”

“Am not-- you aren’t even counting in 2-4 are you? You’re counting in 4-4?”

“I am counting in 2-4 because this fucking song’s written in 2-4!”

“Okay--” Mickey tugs his hands through his hair. “Okay. Let’s just--”

“Just focus and stop fucking around so we can get this over with.”Mandy counts them in again. They stop before they even get to the chorus. It sounds off. It’s an old song, a couple years old, they’ve played it a hundred times. And it sounds awful.

“Can we try something else?” Mandy asks somewhat desperately. “Maybe it’s just, I don’t know-- let’s try a different one.”

They do. They run through their setlist. Everything is off. Mickey’s fingers can’t seem to go where he tells them. Mandy’s voice isn’t matching with his at all. Halfway through a song, one of their crowd favorites, Mickey slams his hand across the guitar strings as loud as he can, causing an unpleasant screech.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mandy shouts, throwing up her hands.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me except my fucking brother’s throwing a temper tantrum like a child! We don’t have time for this Mickey--” Mandy fumes over him, cutting him off. “We have four fucking days and we sound like shit--”

“Maybe we wouldn’t sound like shit if one of us was actually focused on the fucking band!” Mickey yells. He yanks his guitar off, storms up the stairs with Mandy close at his heels.

“What the hell does that mean, huh? Hey, asswipe!” She grabs at his arm and Mickey shakes her off. “I’m not the one who’s spent the last week in a funk, complaining about everything and crying to Svetlana.”

“I didn’t-- what-- Svetlana!” Mickey feels his back teeth grinding together. “Look--” They haven’t made it back up the stairs to their apartment and they’re standing in the entranceway to the building, both of them in their bare feet. “I don’t care who you’re fucking or if you have a boyfriend or whatever but it is a problem when it means you’re so distracted that we sound like a slow-motion trainwreck.”

“Distracted?” Mandy yells. When Mandy yells Mandy really yells. It’s something to do with having to yell over all her brothers for most of her life. “I’m distracted? You’re the one who--wait--” She pauses and stares at him, one finger still pointed like a gun at Mickey’s chest. “Boyfriend? Have you lost your mind?”

“No!”

Mandy blinks at him. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Whatever the fuck you wanna call it. Gallagher. Carrot top.”

Mandy’s eyes grow wide, really really wide. She stares at him even harder, like he’s started speaking in gibberish or is beginning to grow another head.

“What?” Mickey barks, because Mandy suddenly and abruptly starts laughing. She laughs so hard she has to lean against the wall to support herself. She laughs so hard she rubs at her eyes and smudges her eyeliner. “Mands,” Mickey grits out.

“Ian Gallagher isn’t my boyfriend!” Mandy gasps, clutching at her stomach. “Are you-- fuck-- are you telling me you’ve been acting like a collossal turd because-- ”

“I make a point of not liking the people who fuck my sister,” Mickey snaps. Mandy’s eyes grow, impossibly, even bigger. She seems too shocked to laugh.

“We’re friends, Mickey.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah, y’know, we hang out, have fun, foreign concept, I know.”

“You fucking him?”

“I am not fucking him.” The expression on Mandy’s face is now bordering on alarmed.

“You’re not fucking him.”

“Mick--” Mandy’s mouth moves soundlessly for a minute. She snaps it closed. “Ian couldn’t get it up with me unless I was wearing a fake beard and a strapon. Probably not even then.”

“You’re telling me that’s what you’re into now? Because I did not need to--”

“Ian is gay, Mickey,” Mandy barks.

“Oh.”

Mandy crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. “Which I’d assumed was pretty obvious seeing as you’re pretty gay, and I don’t want to make blanket judgements or anything but Ian owns a lot of v-neck tanktops.”

“Alright, alright,” Mickey’s beginning to find her exasperated look unnerving. “I’m a dick. You win.”

“You are a dick,” Mandy grabs at his arm and slings it affectionately over her own shoulders. “And I always win. C’mon, let’s go through the set one more time and then get drunk.”

They walk downstairs together, their elbows bumping, and the angry feeling in Mickey’s chest evaporates like it was never even there.

 


	3. Part One: iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian knew when he met Mandy Milkovich that he probably wouldn’t be getting bored.

“Mandy,” Ian says on Friday afternoon. “I don’t think your brother likes me very much.”

Mandy raises her eyebrows. They’re sitting out on the Milkovich’s tiny apartment balcony in the sun, both of them revelling in the fact that it’s finally warm enough to wear shorts and tanktops without risking loss of limb due to frostbite. Mandy is smoking and they’re drinking beers and Ian is pleasantly day-drunk. Overall he’s is in a great mood: He doesn’t have to work tonight, he made great tips the night before considering it was a Thursday, and they have no plans for the day except to slowly get drunk and maybe watch a bad movie together in Mandy’s leopard-print bed. Except this one thing. This one thing that keeps grating on Ian.

Mandy shrugs, stretching her legs out onto the balcony railing. “Don’t take it personally.” She chews her lip. “He’s usually not quite this grumpy, but it’s not like he’s ever cuddly. I don’t think Mickey really likes anybody.”

That isn’t entirely true, Ian knows. Mickey likes Mandy. Mickey likes Svetlana, the pretty Russian hairdresser with great legs who comes into Ian’s bar every other night to drink vodka tonics. Ian’s seen them at the bar once or twice together, laughing. She’s come over to the Milkovich’s apartment once since he’s really been hanging out with Mandy. Svetlana went out with him and Mandy a few times too, and they’d had a great time together and it was obvious to Ian why anyone would like her.

He’d asked Mandy, out of pure curiousity, if Mickey and Svetlana were dating. She had laughed for twenty minutes, and told him that Svetlana was a lesbian.

“Did I do something to piss him off?” Ian asks, then immediately feels stupid for saying it out loud.

“He thought we were dating or something,” Mandy snorts.

“Really?”

“Don’t ask me. He seemed like he was in a better mood this morning, so maybe he’ll be somewhat more palatable. He really is always a grump, Ian. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“It’s just been ages since someone met me and thought I was straight,” Ian says to laugh it off. He doesn’t know why he’s so bothered by the fact that Mickey Milkovich doesn’t like him. He barely knows him, has had the equivalent of two conversations with him both of which seemed to be more work on his own part. Part of it is that Mickey Milkovich is a really good songwriter, staggeringly good actually. He’s also good-looking, which Ian should have expected given what Mandy looks like but didn’t for some reason. He had been taken aback the other night in the bar when he’d been properly introduced to Mickey, who he had only previously seen up on stage from a distance. He’d been even more taken aback seeing him at home the next day, because Mickey Milkovich apparently has the ability to transform from a singer who looks at home in tight jeans with a guitar over his shoulder to a figure that would fit in better making a drug deal in the neighborhood Ian had grown up in. He’s perplexing. Ian doesn’t look like he’s from the Southside, never really did even when he lived there. He can still talk like it when he wants to, can definitely still fight like it. But he doesn’t look like it. There’s something about the set of Mickey Milkovich’s shoulders and the curve of his eyebrows and the ink on his (guitar-callused and surprisingly small) fingers that puts him at odds with the way he sings.

They’d made eye contact, one of those probably-should-look-away-but-didn’t moments, across the bar on Friday night. Ian had been watching them because the bar was busy and he likes watching Mandy play. Mandy onstage is similar to Mandy off; she dances, she cracks jokes with the audience, she moves to the music and makes you also want to have a good time with her. Mickey onstage-- well. Mickey sings and he sounds sweet. He’s good looking, good hair and clear, intense blue eyes, but when he sings, guitar in hand and mouth up against the microphone, something else happens. Ian can’t explain it.

And anyway, Ian just wants people to like him. It’s not the worst flaw to have.

For the past twelve months, Ian Gallagher’s morning alarm has been set for 6:30 a.m. Getting up early is an old habit, drilled into him from years of a busy family and high school and military life. He doesn’t mind it. It feels normal. Sometimes, depending on the weather, he’ll hit the snooze once. Sleeping any later than 8 without any reason to has come to signify bad things in Ian’s mind, so he gets up at 6:30, 6:45 if the weather’s bad.

Ian gets up at 6:30, he makes breakfast and coffee. He takes his medication. He goes on a run, he showers. For the last year he has been going to class, still a novel concept, but the high temperatures and humid air signifying the beginning of summer means he has a lot more free time. So he hangs around with Mandy, he spends time with his family, he babysits Kev and Vee’s kids, he goes to work. He takes his medication. He goes to bed.

It’s a routine, an oddly comforting one considering the chaos that he lived through the year before this one. It’s routine, it’s consistent, it’s safe, and it’s starting to get a bit boring. Ian had been dreading the summer, until he met Mandy.

Ian knew when he met Mandy Milkovich that he probably wouldn’t be getting bored.

He’d been at a party when he’d been properly introduced to her. Ian had actually seen Mandy and Mickey play at various bars four or five times without knowing who they were. But he’d been at the party and had bumped into, of all people, Karen Jackson, who he hadn’t seen in years, and who had practically dragged him across the room to introduce him to Mandy. Karen had been so drunk and so enthusiastic about the introduction that she’d dumped her beer down Mandy’s front and Ian had offered her his jacket. They’d proceeded to dance, get even drunker, escaped the party and ended up at a Denny’s at 2 a.m. and had liked each other immediately. Now, two months later, they fit into each other’s lives like they’ve always been there.

It’s like the plotline of a sitcom or something, Ian muses as he watches Mandy exhale cigarette smoke. His life’s always been a little bit like the plot of a sitcom (it’s inevitable when you live in a tiny house with six kids and an alcoholic dad) but this really clinches it. Instantaneous best friend, complete with hot grumpy older brother.

As if on cue, the door to Mandy’s apartment opens and closes and Mickey comes out onto the porch holding a beer. He’s in jeans and a black t-shirt, work wear probably, and he cracks open the beer and drinks and then burps.

“Douchebags,” he says, and props himself up against the arm of Mandy’s lawn chair so he’s standing between them.

“Hello to you too,” Mandy says. Mickey reaches over and snatches Mandy’s cigarette, sticking it in his own mouth. She makes a face. “Keep it,” she says when offers it back. “Not like I was using it or anything.” Mickey grins and, surprisingly, turns to offer the cigarette to Ian.

Ian takes it on reflex. He hasn’t smoked cigarettes actively since high school; it was a social thing that became too complicated and expensive to keep up in basic training. But he drags on it and feels Mickey watching him out of the corner of his eye. When he passes it back their fingers brush and Ian’s face is suddenly much warmer than even the warm weather should allow.

“You all staying in tonight?” Mickey asks, returning the cigarette to his mouth. “I’ll order a pizza.”

“No olives on it this time,” Mandy says cheerfully. “I swear you do that just to piss me off.”

“I honestly forgot!”

“You’ve got one sister and she hates olives. Can’t be hard to remember.”

“Try keeping it straight in my household,” Ian finishes the last of his beer and sets the bottle under the chair and stretches until his back pops. “I’m pretty sure Fiona has a chart that outlines who likes what.”

“How many of you are there?” Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“Six. Not counting my dad, or whoever my brother is and isn’t dating at any given time.”

“Fuckton of Irish Catholic gingers. That’s a scary thought.”

“Fuck off,” Ian says good-naturedly. They are a fuckton of Irish Catholics. He doesn’t bother to point out they don’t all have red hair.

“Is your Irish Catholic pride gonna be wounded if I whoop your ass in Call of Duty?” Mickey stands up, and Mandy rolls her eyes behind his back. Don’t even try, her expression reads. Please don’t turn my home into a video game battleground, her expression reads. I need another beer, her expression reads.

“In your fucking dreams,” Ian can’t help himself.

“Oh-ho, tough guy,” Mickey chuckles.

Ian beats Mickey soundly in Call of Duty. Mandy ultimately comes out on top, though, as always.

 

 


	4. Part One: iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Run now, compliment later,” Ian replies, and before Mickey can fully comprehend what’s happening Ian’s seized him by the wrist and is pulling him through the crowd that’s gathered to watch their little scene.

“Hold on, hold on, hold ON--” Mandy, dressed in a blouse and short black skirt and a great deal of eyeliner, has a look in her eye that suggests if she had happened to have a shiv on her it would be buried in the ribcage of the bar manager who’s staring them down. “Repeat what you just said to me. It better not sound like what you just said to me.”

“Look,” the manager, a gangly middle-aged guy with a very bad goatee, frowns and scratches at his facial hair. “I know it was kinda an uncool thing to do,” scratch scratch, “but something better came up, alright? This band’ll just draw more of a crowd, they’re more into our vibe.” Scratch scratch. Mickey’s back teeth are inadvertently grinding together and he wishes he had a tire iron. Set of brass knuckles. Fewer people around so he could hit the guy in the face.  

“What the fuck does that mean? Your vibe?” Mandy’s fists clench and unclench. “By vibe do you mean the interior decoration in this place, which looks a little bit like a strung-out hipster vomited on some wood panelling and called it a day?”

“Hey!” The manager somehow manages to look offended. “I picked those chairs out, don’t be rude.”

“You booked us three fucking months ago,” Mickey makes himself put his guitar down so he doesn’t slam it over the guy’s head. It costs more than their monthly rent. They’d shown up, all their stuff in tow, two hours before their gig was due to start and had been told when they’d walked in by this horrifying man with horrifying facial hair that they’d been replaced for the night. Not only that, but the opportunity to become a regular performer at the bar had been filled too.

“And I’m giving you three minutes to get out of my hair before I ask my bouncer to come over here.” Scratch scratch.

“Do you like that fucking goatee?” Mickey snaps. “Do you want it to remain attached to your chin?”

“Hey man,” the manager holds his hands in front of his chest defensively. “It’s just business, alright? This band’s a real hip band, real cool and upbeat and no offense but you guys--” he gestures. “You’re a little rough looking for this place.”

“Rough looking?” Mandy’s eyebrows vanish into her fringe. “You think we’re rough looking? You’re gonna be rough looking when I’m done with you.”

“Alright, princess. Get out of my bar.”

“You wanna fucking die?” Mickey shouts, and Mandy has to seize him around the shoulders and haul him out the door. He mostly lets her.

They cram onto the first train they can catch and because they’re both angry and it’s closer than home, end up at Ian's bar, carting two guitars, a keyboard, a ukulele and an amp. Ian Gallagher, of course, is idly wiping the bar counter and looking bored. The bar’s full but pretty quiet. Ian’s face lights up when he sees them and he waves as they sit down. He looks chipper. He somehow always manages to look chipper. Mickey can’t understand it.

“Hey guys,” he says, reaching across the bar to sling his arm around Mandy’s shoulders in a rough hug. Mandy leans into his shoulder and sighs heavily. “Thought you were playing a gig?”

“Bottle of Jack, two glasses,” Mickey says, leaning heavily on the counter. “Line ‘em up.” Ian obliges. Mickey takes a shot, then another, then drops his elbows onto the bar again.

“What happened?” Ian fills the shot glasses again without spilling anything despite the fact that he’s not looking.

“Fucking gig cancelled on us,” Mandy picks up the shot glass and stares into it moodily. “Didn’t even bother to call. We hauled all our stuff across town for nothing.”

“We’re out a couple hundred bucks, and the guy at the bar said we looked ‘rough.’”

“What was rough was his greasy facial hair,” Mandy downs the shot and makes a face. “Looking him in the eye without wanting to pick up a straight razor? That’s what’s rough.”

“Shit,” Ian says sympathetically.

“They booked us three months ago!” Mandy slams her fist down on the bartop.

“What bar was this?” Ian fills Mandy’s glass up again. “I’m off at midnight, we can go throw a brick through their window, bust up the guy’s car? Call in the health inspector? My friendKev might know a guy.” This is so startling and unexpected that Mickey starts laughing despite himself.

“No,” Mandy sighs. “‘I just-- I just-- I feel like we’re kinda well known, right? Well known enough for some dick with a soul patch wouldn’t want to just kick us out.”

“Fuck him,” Ian says. “He obviously doesn’t know what he’s passed up.”

“I wanted to jump on this opportunity, to have somewhere to play every Friday or whatever,” Mandy says heavily. “Build up a consistent crowd, you know? Let people come back to the same place and time.”

“That was the goal,” Mickey is reaching for the next shot and wondering if it might make him feel better to bust up somebody’s car when Ian sets the bottle of Jack down a few inches from Mickey’s fingers rather excitedly. “Yo,” Mickey says. “I do use those, bud. Can’t play guitar with a smashed pinkie.”

“Why don’t you just play here?” Ian ignores Mickey’s protests entirely. He glances from Mickey to Mandy and back again. “I mean, no worries if this isn’t the kind of place you’re aiming for but we loved you guys last week, people kept coming up to me saying how good you were and we had a great night because the crowd was happy, I’m sure my manager’d be into it, we don’t have anyone who comes in weekly so we could probably swing it and I know it might not be on the side of town you’re looking for but people love live music here--” Mickey blinks at him again. He’s never heard anyone talk quite that fast.

“Whoa,” he says, and because the whiskey’s finally hitting him a little he grabs at Ian’s hands. “Gallagher. It’s a great idea. Give me your manager’s number or something, huh?”

“Yeah!” Ian starts to dig his cell phone out of his pocket, then notices a few people lingering at the bar. “I’ll text it to Mandy-- bottle’s on me since your day was so shitty. Hey guys, what can I get you!”

The bar starts to fill up as it gets later, and Mandy and Mickey sit and drink their way through the bottle. Around nine thirty, a really terrible two-man act starts playing and Ian comes back, making a gagging gesture with his hands when he’s out of sight of the singers.

“See what I mean? We’d love to have you,” he says.

“I don’t think I can even consider that a compliment,” Mandy winces. “All I’d have to do to be better than them is sing in the shower.”

Svetlana shows up around 10 and helps them drink the bottle, and before Mickey’s really aware of it he and Mandy and Svetlana and several other Russian girls whose names he’s never really remembered are dancing vigorously to the shitty band. Ian comes over to clear away the glasses from their table and Mandy thrusts the mostly-empty bottle at him; he glances around him, winks at them and drains it then wanders away. Mickey watches him go, feeling fuzzy-headed and perplexed. Which is probably the whiskey. Definitely the whiskey. He glances over at Mandy who is watching him, and she raises one eyebrow. A minute later she almost falls off her chair, so Mickey feels securely that she’s in no place to judge.

Not long after that, Mickey’s considering finding the bar and another drink when he glances over to see Ian grinding on his sister. His first impulse is to get annoyed, and his second is to admire Ian’s ability to gyrate his hips to off-key mid-tempo indie rock and still look like he’s having a good time and didn’t just come off a several-hour long shift. The song ends and Ian is suddenly shoving a shot of Fireball into Mickey’s hand and cheering. The next thing he remembers clearly is standing outside of the bar trying to light his cigarette, with Mandy’s hands on his shoulders.

“I need you to--” she’s saying, and Mickey is trying to listen to her and trying to get the tip of his cigarette to line up with his lighter and not doing a great job of either, “Mickey! Mickey. I need you to go somewhere. Somewhere that isn’t our where. Our apartment. Somewhere else.” Mandy is drunk. He’s drunk too, but Mandy is drunk with a bright look in her eye that Mickey understands. She quirks an eyebrow at him. That look means Mandy wants to score, and wants the apartment to herself, and isn’t going to call a cab until he agrees.

“Where the fuck do you think I’m gonna go?” Mickey manages to light his cigarette at last, and he brandishes it at her. “Who the fuck are you--”

“Asshole,” Mandy grabs at his face affectionately. “We have an agreement. And I have a someone.” They do have an agreement. A ‘stay out of the way no questions asked’ agreement. A ‘definitely do not get into an argument outside a crowded bar about this’ agreement.

“You owe me,” Mickey says to her. Mandy turns around to grab her coat and her guitar, leaving Mickey to smoke outside.

“Great,” he says to the midnight air. “I’ve been evicted. I’m a pauper. My own sister.”

“Your own sister did what?” Ian, shrugging on a jacket, is behind Mickey and he turns around somewhat unsteadily to look at him.

“Betrayed me. I’ll never forgive her. I’m kicked out of my own home for the night, can you believe it?”

Ian zips up his jacket and opens his mouth to say something when a man coming out of the bar bumps into him from behind and catches his shoulder. Ian turns towards him with his eyebrows raises and the man grins, slowly, lasciviously.

“Interested in a ride around the block?” The guy asks. He’s got too much gel in his hair and nails that look like they’ve been manicured and he smells like tequila. Ian rolls his eyes and turns back towards Mickey and opens his mouth again but the guy grabs at his shoulder. Ian gives him a withering look, and Mickey feels like he needs to intervene.

“Look pal,” he says, wedging himself in between Ian and the guy. Up close he smells like tequila and bad cologne. “He ain’t interested, so get outta here.”

“He looked interested to me,” the guy is probably four inches taller than Mickey and he has two friends behind him who are looking on. But Mickey’s strong. “And you look like you’d do a few things for twenty bucks.”

“Do we look like a couple of twinks for sale to you?” Mickey snaps, uncrossing his arms.

“Yes,” the guys says definitively. Mickey blinks at him, considers that what he’s planning to do is probably a bad idea, and then decides to do it anyway.

He hits the guy as hard as he can in the face with his right hand, right on his perfectly shaven jaw. The guy staggers backwards and Mickey turns away to see Ian staring at him with both his eyebrows raises.

“Fuck off,” Mickey starts to say, but then someone leaps onto his back, grappling with his arms, and the wind is almost knocked out of him. From the smell it’s definitely the guy Mickey hit. He struggles to throw him off without falling over himself but the other man’s grip is surprisingly strong around Mickey’s middle.

“Hey!” Ian shouts, and the man’s arms loosen just a little. “Come over here and I’ll tell you myself what my answer is.” The grip around Mickey’s middle breaks, and he slumps forward onto the sidewalk rubbing at his ribs.

Ian is smiling at tequila-and-cologne and takes a step forward to put his hand on the guy’s shoulder and Mickey thinks for a wild moment that Ian is going to kiss him when Ian’s leg jerks up and he knees him in the balls with considerable force. The man topples over sideways, and Ian steps over him, grabs Mickey by the back of the shirt and hauls him to his feet.

“Nice one,” Mickey says.

“Run now, compliment later,” Ian replies, and before Mickey can fully comprehend what’s happening Ian’s seized him by the wrist and is pulling him through the crowd that’s gathered to watch their little scene. Mickey hears shouting and a long string of cursing behind them as Ian pulls him out of the crowd and around the corner, and they job a few more blocks before he finally slows down.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey wheezes, yanking his wrist back. It’s been a while since he’s had to spring from the cops and he’s pretty winded. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

Ian is doubled over with his hands on his knees and Mickey thinks at first he’s breathing hard until he hears what is unmistakably laughter. “I can’t believe you did that,” Ian gasps. “I can’t believe you just-- you just-- fuck--”

“Part of my effective method to curb street harassment forever,” Mickey says, and Ian, who had almost managed to get a handle on his laughter, starts up again. Mickey laughs too, he can’t help it. “Definitely most effective with a team though. The look on that asshole’s face, wish I coulda framed it. You got moves, Gallagher.”

“Yeah,” Ian is clutching at his stomach. “That’s one way of describing it.”

“You run off down this alley with a purpose or what?” Mickey glances around and realizes he doesn’t really know where he is.

“Nah,” Ian is straightening up and wiping his eyes. “I live around the corner. You’re welcome to crash there, by the way, since Mandy kicked you out.”

“You got a couch?”

“Got the comfiest fucking couch in the world!”

“Then lead on, Wonder Boy.” Ian starts laughing again, and he leads Mickey around another street corner to a small block of apartments.

Ian unlocks his door and lets Mickey in and Mickey is surprised to see that Ian Gallagher is probably a lot less type-A than Mickey had pegged him for. He has an extremely ugly but very comfortable looking tartan couch in the middle of his living room, and two crammed bookshelves frame a television that was probably top of the line five years ago. A jumble of sneakers and boots and running shoes are stacked in front of the door, there’s an enormous military-issue canvas bag spilling out of the closet that seems to be holding croquet mallets and tennis racquets, and the walls are decorated with the kind of haphazard posters and pictures that suggest someone who doesn’t pay much attention to his decorating. Ian kicks off his shoes and dumps his jacket over a pretty rickety wooden kitchen chair so Mickey does the same thing.

“Want something?” Ian is rounding the island that separates his kitchen from the rest of the living room with less success than he might ordinarily. He has to stop and catch himself on the corner. “Water? Coffee? Beer? A joint?”

“You offering?” Mickey pushes past Ian into the kitchen to scrub at his knuckles in the sink. They aren’t too beat up considering how hard he hit the man outside the bar, but he washes his hands anyway.

“Yeah! My brother’s got a good dealer, it’s really good. College girls cling to Lip like barnacles to ships. They hook him up with cheap drugs.”

“Lip?” Mickey glances at the bookshelves and Ian rummages in some cabinets. They’re stuffed with one of the widest collections of books Mickey’s ever seen in one place. Ian’s TV is set into a wooden entertainment center, and the top of the cabinet is covered in framed photos which catch Mickey’s eye.

“Short for Phillip,” Ian’s saying. “Graduation photo? He’s in the middle. With the cigarette.” Mickey finds the graduation photo; Ian dressed in a navy gown and cap, grinning in the middle of a pile of people. Lip is several inches shorter than him with curly hair.

“You aren’t all firecrotches?” Mickey says, depositing himself on the couch. Ian snorts.

“Recessive traits, you know,” he says. “Hold on, I left the weed in the other room.” He walks behind Mickey and the couch to a back bedroom. Mickey glances over the rest of the pictures. There’s one of Ian and a red-headed girl who has to be his little sister sitting on the most beat-up porch Mickey’s ever seen, one of him wearing an ugly floral vest at someone’s wedding, one of him and Lip and a pretty brunette in swimsuits at the lake, grinning at the camera with beers in their hands. Ian has a sunburn in that photo.

It must be nice, Mickey thinks idly, to have childhood memories you are fond enough to want to frame.

Ian comes back a second later and sits himself on the other end of the couch somewhat unsteadily, then leans forward and props himself up on his elbows to roll the joints. He does so quickly and neatly. He hands one to Mickey and then turns on the television.

“Say Yes to the Dress or three hours worth of the fourth Indiana Jones movie?”

“Depends entirely on how good this shit is,” Mickey lights the joint, then holds out the lighter in Ian’s direction. Ian’s joint catches and he inhales and Mickey does too; he can tell right away that it is good. He can also tell it’s good because Indiana Jones  is unexpectedly engrossing.

“Does shit like that happen to you a lot? Asshole outside the bar?” Mickey asks. Ian shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m a gay bartender with distinctive hair. It’s pretty unavoidable.”

“Didn’t used to be?” Mickey points vaguely in the direction of the military bag in the closet. Ian looks shocked. And stoned. Mostly stoned.

“I do not dye my hair!” he says.

“No! I mean. I mean.” Mickey has forgotten what he means because Shia LaBoeuf is on a motorcycle which is unforgivable. He says this. Ian agrees. “I mean!” He remembers what he means. “You’ve got military stuff. You were in the military?”

“Yeah,” Ian nods and hands him another joint. “A few years ago I was just a gay soldier with distinctive hair. What the fuck!” He’s pointing at the television. “When did Harrison Ford get so old?"

“We’ve been watching this for a half an hour,” Mickey points out. “So at least a half an hour ago.”

“What the fuck,” Ian shakes his head in disbelief. Mickey feel certain that he’s in the best mood he’s been in in weeks. He also feels certain that Ian’s couch is actually the comfiest fucking couch on the planet.

“Mickey,” Ian whispers, leaning across the couch in his direction. He falls over almost into Mickey’s lap but manages to pull himself upright. As far as Mickey can tell he’s whispering because the movie has reached a serious moment and he doesn’t want to disturb it. “Mickey. We’re friends right? Because I have something very important to tell you. But only if we’re friends.”

“Yeah sure,” Mickey says, because he feels bonelessly comfortable and got to punch someone in the face earlier and he’s genuinely enjoying himself. Or he’s just stoned. Probably stoned. Maybe both? Definitely stoned, though.

“Okay,” Ian’s face is very serious. “Okay. So. Okay. How many lightbulbs does it take to change a person?”

Mickey stares at him. “I don’t know!” He says finally.

“Gives you something to think about doesn’t it,” Ian says.

“If I fall asleep will you explain this movie to me later?” Mickey asks, because he is suddenly worried he’s going to fall asleep and miss the ending.

“I’m pretty sure Harrison Ford fucks an alien,” Ian pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. “But I’m here for you.”

 


	5. Part One: v

Ian wakes up around nine the next morning with bright morning sunshine, egg-yolk yellow and warm on his closed eyelids, streaming through his living room window. It takes him a long moment to place where he is and there’s a second of ice-cold panic in his chest when he thinks he’s lost track of things again, forgotten about time and the mundane things his life is filled with and the ability to do anything but keep breathing and he thinks _No, no, no, not today_ , but a second later his eyes focus and he realizes that’s not it.

He fell asleep sitting up on the couch, which is unusual, to find the television on playing morning talk-show news, which is also weird, and Mickey Milkovich’s sleeping face practically on his shoulder, which is the strangest thing of all. Mickey is sleeping with his mouth open and his brows drawn in; he looks much younger and much softer in sleep than he does when awake.

Ian doesn’t have a clear recollection of the progression of events that took him from work to dancing with Mandy to Mickey Milkovich asleep on his shoulder, which is troubling. His first reaction is to fumble down his own body to see if he’s fully clothed, or for any other evidence that something might have happened in the fuzzy space in his mind between one and two a.m. There isn’t anything that indicates they hooked up. It’s happened before, Ian taking someone home and waking up without much memory of the details, mostly when he’s feeling really manic. This doesn’t seem to be the case. For some reason this is a relief.

Mickey’s eyelids flutter a little and Ian instinctively scoots further down the couch away from him, stretching his arms up over his head as he does so and yawning. He’s not exactly hungover but his body has the lazy, stretched-out feeling he gets when he’s been seriously crossfaded. He needs pancakes. Probably a mountain of them.

Mickey yawns and opens his eyes as Ian hauls himself up off the couch to get a glass of water and his medication.

“Do you have a cat?” Mickey asks.

“No?”

“My mouth tastes like one crapped in it,” Mickey says, pulling a face. He yawns again. “Still can’t believe you kneed some guy in the balls in the middle of the sidewalk last night,” he says, his voice filled with amusement.

That’s right. That’s what happened last night. “Oh fuck,” Ian finishes the glass of water. “My boss is gonna kill me if word gets back to him.”

“Completely self defense,” Mickey says, standing up. “I need bacon. You got bacon?”

“No,” Ian says, “but there is a great diner down the street.”

“Then what are you doing just standing there, huh?”

Ten minutes later Ian is halfway through a cup of coffee and Mickey is pouring an avalanche of syrup over a stack of pancakes.

“No jokes about my sweet tooth, alright? I get enough of that shit from my fucking sister,” he says. Ian makes a motion across his mouth like he’s zipping it closed, and digs into his own breakfast. Mickey grins at him with his mouth full. His shirt collar is askew and his hair’s ruffled up at the back and his eyes are sleepy, but he looks good. Ian feels good.

He’s tired and he smells like marijuana, and he’ll have to go into work today to make sure there wasn’t any trouble from the guy who’s balls he kneed last night and he’s remembering now he promised Lip he’d help him move a couch into his apartment in the afternoon but that all feels like superfluous crap compared to the realization that dawns over Ian as he eats his pancakes. It’s all background noise, unimportant and uninteresting because he’s being hit with something like he’s being hit over the head with a baseball bat, or a semi truck, or a land mine.

He’s got a crush.

On Mickey Milkovich.

 


	6. Part Two: i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even so, Mickey doesn’t dislike Ian, which is surprise. He dislikes most of the people he meets, that’s just how it is. He either dislikes them straight off, or tires of them after a night or two. Svetlana’s an exception, but Svetlana doesn’t run her mouth. Ian’s annoying. He’s always peppy, he and Mandy stay up all night, he keeps inviting Mickey to go running with him, he never shuts up and Mickey doesn’t dislike him.
> 
> It’s alarming, and Mickey doesn’t like it.

“Thanks for coming out on this beautiful Friday night, everyone! I’m Mandy, he’s Mickey, together we’re Mandy and the Misdemeanors, and this one is called ‘Glory is What I Got’... let’s hear it!”

The song starts out with Mickey on guitar, a nice little line that’s one of the better things Mandy’s composed recently. Mickey plays it, lets it breathe for a couple seconds, then starts into the first verse, and the crowd cheers for him. They really cheer when Mandy joins him on the chorus, dancing a little and tapping her tambourine on her thigh.

They’ve played at the Empty Bottle the past three Friday nights, and Mickey has watched the bar’s crowd get a little bigger every time. It’s pretty packed tonight, and everyone is drunk and dancing and having a good time. Someone is having a birthday party and they bought a round of drinks for the bar before they started their set which probably helped everyone’s spirits, but its a good feeling. People are even singing along. Svetlana, who’s agreed to keep an eye on the merch table, keeps selling t-shirts and CD’s. Mickey can’t help but feel a little vindictively happy that the manager of the Empty Bottle was so excited to book them, and that they’re doing so well.

They play three more, two originals and a cover of a Vampire Weekend song, and then Mandy steps up to the mic and asks if there are any requests. The second night they’d played here some douchebag in the back of the room had shouted out, as some douchebag in the back of the room always tends to do, “play Wonderwall!” Instead of ignoring him, Mickey had actually played Wonderwall (and had added about fifteen more ‘fucks’ into the lyrics) and people didn’t stopped requesting ridiculous covers for an hour after. The show after that, Mandy had decided they should pass around a hat with some slips of paper. They’d ended up covering Florence & the Machine, OKGo and the Party Rock Anthem. People love it, and it keeps Mandy and Mickey on their toes creatively. If covering the Party Rock Anthem with a kazoo counts as creativity.

They take a few minute break while the hat makes its way around the room and works its way back to them, and someone taps Mickey on the elbow. He turns to see Ian with two beers in his hands grinning from the edge of the stage. Mickey takes them and passes one to Mandy, and Ian gives them a thumbs up and bounces back off through the crowd again. Mickey watches him go, feeling a weird combination of fondness and irritation as he follows Ian’s head through the crowd. Ian stops to give a few people high fives, walks behind the bar and then quickly slides a few beers down it.

He wishes Mandy had warned him that being friends with Ian Gallagher would involve listening to him _talk_. He can talk more than anyone else Mickey has ever met. More than Mandy, which Mickey would have never believed possible. When they’re together and they get going, they never shut up. Ian also seems to have an apparently inexhaustible series of topics to talk about, so it’s always something new. Stories from the daycare his sister ran when he was little. Tips on long distance running without hurting your knees. The evolution of helicopter engineering over time. Video game development. Figure painting.

Even so, Mickey doesn’t dislike Ian, which is surprise. He dislikes most of the people he meets, that’s just how it is. He either dislikes them straight off, or tires of them after a night or two. Svetlana’s an exception, but Svetlana doesn’t run her mouth. Ian’s annoying. He’s always peppy, he and Mandy stay up all night, he keeps inviting Mickey to go running with him, he never shuts up and Mickey doesn’t dislike him.

It’s alarming, and Mickey doesn’t like it.  

The hat has made its way through the crowd back to the stage and Mandy snatches it up and starts ruffling through the pieces of folded paper inside, opening a few and frowning and putting them back.

“Someone keeps requesting Free Bird,” she mutters. “But-- oh!” She starts laughing. “Yup, this is it. You’ve got this one, I’ll play keyboard.” Giggling, she passes the paper to Mickey. He stares at it in disgust.

“I don’t know the words to it,” he snaps.

“Everyone knows the words to it,” Mandy grins at him.

Mickey glares at the slip of paper. It reads, in neat blocky black letters, “Toxic by Britney Spears (your sister says you know the words).”

“Gallagher!” Mickey shouts. Behind the bar, Ian starts laughing so hard he almost drop a glass.

Irritating, Mickey thinks to himself. So fucking irritating.

He covers the song anyway.

They finish up their set around eleven and the bar starts playing its own music which keeps the momentum going and the dancers dancing. Mickey wants another drink but the bar counter is packed, so he goes to find Svetlana who, he’s somewhat flattered to see, has yulled a ‘Mandy and the Misdemeanors’ t-shirt over her own tanktop.

“You sound good tonight,” she gives him a high five and smiles. “You stay? Dance? Celebrate?”

“Maybe,” Mickey says. He’s not much of a dancer. Svetlana wiggles her hips at grins at him. “Yeah nice try,” Mickey shoves his hand in her face. “But you and I both know that’s not gonna work out for either of us.”

She laughs and shoves his hand away. “You make Orange Boy make me a drink, yeah?”

Ian, surprisingly, isn’t at the bar. Another bartender, a young woman, makes their drinks and before Svetlana is halfway finished with hers Mandy appears out of the crowd, grabs Svetlana by the arm and pulls her away to go dance. Mickey is left to drink his Jack and Coke. Mandy and Svetlana come back ten minutes later, both pink-faced and laughing, with Ian and another man Mickey doesn’t know. Ian leans across the bar to tap the female bartender on the arm.

“Hey, Susan, can we get four Irish Car Bombs? Wait--” he pauses to look at Mickey, raising his eyebrows. “Five? Five of ‘em?” Susan sets out five glasses and starts filling them with Guinness.

“You guys sounded great tonight!” Ian says to Mickey. “Oh! Shit! This is my brother, Lip. Lip, this is Mickey!”

Lip, who Mickey remembers from Ian’s graduation photo, has a curly head of hair and the look of someone who makes a point of looking like he’d like to be elsewhere. He’s wearing jeans and clunky lace-up boots, and even though he isn’t smoking he looks like he should be smoking.

“How’s it going, man?” Lip asks, shaking Mickey’s hand. “Great set, loved it.” Mickey nods in greeting, then accepts first the beer glass and then the shot glass from Ian. They clink their glasses together and then Mickey drops the shot into the Guinness and downs it. Svetlana drains hers first, raising her hands up over her head and cheering in triumph. Ian gives her a high five. A few minutes later, she and Mandy disappear into the crowd again and Lip gets them another round.

“Don’t stick it on my tab again,” Ian says cheerfully, and Lip rolls his eyes at him.

“Yeah please, take advantage of my full-time job and ignore the fact that I’ll probably support you in your old and crotchety age.”

“You’re already crotchety,” Ian shoots back. “You have the lungs and the knees of an old man.”

“At least I look like I’m over twenty.”

“It’s the freckles,” Ian shrugs at Mickey. “They age me down like five years. They’ve been through a Chicago winter, you’d think they’d have faded some.”

“When you came home you were one giant freckle,” Lip says.

“Yeah, I know. I still have a farmer’s tan. Nothing quite like Iraqi countryside sun for your complexion.”

“Wait,” Mickey has been following this conversation back and forth like watching a pingpong ball, but he feels he needs to stop it. “You were actually in Iraq?”

“Yeah,” Ian says and for once, he doesn’t elaborate. Lip starts chewing, loudly, on the edge of his right thumbnail.

“You aren’t old enough to have finished a tour though, unless those freckles really do work wonders--”

“Ah, no,” something in Ian’s face shuts down, just closes in on itself. His mouth tightens around the edges, his jaw clenches, his eyes get distant. He’s usually so bright, so in-your-face and open; all of a sudden Mickey has the feeling that he’s treading on the edges of some dangerous waters. “I got sent home. Two years in.”

“You steal something or what?” Mickey tries to keep his voice light, make it clear it’s a joke. To his relief, Ian snorts.

“No, fuck you, I didn’t steal anything. Just had some health stuff happen. Stuff they wanted to treat here, not there.”

“So! Uh,” Lip’s voice is a little too loud and he smacks Ian on the shoulder and waggles his eyebrows. “Your friend Svetlana? She single?”

“No,” Ian rolls his eyes. “And she’s gay. And I don’t think she’d go for you if both those things weren’t true.”

“Do you have any friends who are straight?” Lip sighs.

“I try to avoid it on principle,” Ian says, and Mickey snorts so hard beer goes up his nose.

“What about Mandy, do you think--”

“No,” Ian and Mickey say together.

“You have no idea what I’m gonna say!” Lip manages to look offended. “I could have been about to ask if--”

“No.”

“Hey, fucking shut--”

“No.” Ian drains his glass and pats his brother on his shoulder. “C’mon, I’m sure we can find you someone. Let’s go dance. See ya, Mickey.” And they’re gone, leaving Mickey feeling like he really put his foot in it.

He’s about to finish his beer, find the nearest bus stop and head home without his sister when a man at the bar catches his elbow; a good-looking guy, tall with sandy hair in an expensive looking jacket. He smiles at Mickey with nice, even teeth. 

“You’re with the band, right? I've seen you play a few times now,” He says. His words are slurring just enough to indicate he’s drunk, but probably sober enough that he can still get it up. “You’re really good, thought I should tell you. Really really good.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says cautiously.

“I live around the corner, come here all the time,” the man says. He’s got one elbow on the bar and he’s grinning at Mickey. “And you’re one of the best act I’ve seen this summer.”

“Thanks, man, nice of you to say so,” Mickey says, because it is a nice thing to hear.

“I’m James, by the way,” the man says. “And you’re Mickey, right?”

“Sure am.”

“I don’t know if this is too forward and I’m really drunk so it might be, but can I buy you a drink, Mickey?”

Mickey’s automatic reflects almost prompts him to say no, but then something inside his head kicks in and he thinks, Well what the hell, there are worst ways to spend the night, it's not like he wasn't planning to go home and jack off anyway and a tall guy with nice teeth is preferrable to his own hand any day. “You said you live around the corner?” he asks. James nods. “Let’s skip the small talk then, and just get down to it, right?” James blinks at him, startled and then delighted.

"Really?" He asks. "I guess I wasn't being too forward."

"I'm a pretty straightforward guy," Mickey says, and he gets up to grab his jacket. James grins, and he follows Mickey out of the bar. Mickey lets the door slam behind him without looking back for Mandy, or Svetlana, or Ian.

Mickey has a series of rules that he follows for stuff like this, not written down anywhere but laid out in his head in big bold letters. He doesn’t kiss. He doesn’t invite guys to his apartment unless he has no other options. He doesn’t spend the night. He doesn’t take down anyone’s number. And he doesn’t fuck the same people twice.

Mickey follows his rules, has done so for years, because it’s safe. Because it’s smart. Because the one time he didn’t, everything went to hell.

So he lets James fuck him in his color-coordinated middle-class apartment, shoves him back a little when James tries to kiss him but lets him fuck him. It’s an alright fuck. Mickey comes with his hands fisted around James’s bedposts and James’s hands on his back, and he thinks of Ian Gallagher’s face. He makes his escape pretty fast after that, mumbling some excuse about how he left his keys in the bar and needs to go before they close. 

It isn’t until he’s yanked his clothes back on, dashed out the front door and is waiting for the latest bus in the cold that he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and frowns at himself.

“Well,” he says out loud, because the street’s deserted. “That’s a fucking problem.”

Nobody answers, so Mickey shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s surprised to find a crumpled-up piece of paper in his back jeans pocket. It’s the slip of paper with Ian’s song request from earlier in the night. Mickey scowls at it and is about to throw it out when he notices there’s something written on the back that he hadn’t previously noticed.

It’s Ian’s phone number, with a little note in his blocky handwriting that says ‘In Case You Need It.’

Mickey crumples the note up again and is about to drop it into the street but then stops himself. He scowls at it, pulls out his phone and keys Ian’s number in. It could be useful. If he ever needs to get ahold of Mandy and she doesn’t pick up, which she often doesn’t. If he needs to get in touch with someone at the bar. He’s not going to text Ian or anything, he has to listen to him talk enough when he’s around.

But he saves his number.

Just in case.

The bus pulls up and Mickey stamps out his cigarette and shoves his fingers through his hair before climbing aboard. It's almost empty, and he hopes nobody will look closely enough at him to guess he's fucked. Nobody does because the only person sitting near him is a tiny elderly woman with coke bottle glasses, so he leans his head back on the seat cushion and watches the stop roll away out the window. 

“This is a goddamn fucking problem,” Mickey repeats to himself.

"What was that?" The elderly woman glances up from digging through her enormous handbag in the seat across from him. "Did you say something?'

"Not to you," Mickey snaps, then, because he's still a little drunk and the woman looks a little like his dead Baba, if you aged her up twenty years and squinted, "do you ever feel like you've made a serious mistake but you don't even know where you went wrong?"

"Very rarely, dear," the elderly woman says. "When I make mistakes I tend to mean them." 

"Well that's definitely not it," Mickey says.

"If you say so, dear." The woman smiles and returns to hunting through her bag, and Mickey frowns out the window again. 

 


	7. Part Two: ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lip blinks. “You’ve got the hots for Mickey Milkovich?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together. “Like-- Terry Milkovich’s kid Mickey? Who used to shoplift from the Kash and Grab and could probably count the number of showers he’s taken on one hand?”

As it turns out, Mickey’s resolution to not text Ian is a complete waste of time because Ian texts him. The next day, in fact, before Mickey and Mandy go onstage to do a gig at a bar downtown. Both their phones go off at the same time and both messages read “GOOD LUCK HAVE FUN!”

“Aw, that’s nice,” Mandy smiles. Mickey grunts and turns his phone on silent.

He texts Mickey three days later when Mickey is working late; he’s unloading boxes and counting down the twenty minutes until eight o’clock when his phone buzzes in his pocket. “worst band ever in the bar 2nite, want to steal guitar and smash it over the singer’s head. bail me out?”

It makes Mickey snort a little, but he puts his phone away and keeps working. Of course, Ian is in his apartment when he gets home a half an hour later, helping Mandy make dinner.

“You obviously didn’t wind up in jail,” Mickey says wryly as Ian sets their kitchen table. They never set their kitchen table.

“Yeah, I refrained,” Ian grins. “Barely. Four guys had to hold me back.”

“Alright, tough guy.”

“Gonna run out to the lake to see the sun rise tomorrow,” Ian asks. “It’ll be spectacular. Wanna come?”

“You’d have to drag my dead body behind you with a rope,” Mickey says.

“Cool, it’ll make it a tougher run,” Ian grins, and Mickey gives up.

The next morning, Mickey’s phone goes off at 5 a.m. The text, from Ian, is a photo of the sunrise. It is admittedly a nice view. The lake is stained pink and orange and rising-sun yellow and the city looks dark and quiet and peaceful.

Still, it’s 5 a.m, and Mickey was planning to at least sleep until ten. His first impulse is to fling his phone across the room but he knows that’s sleepy before-ten Mickey thinking and he’ll regret not being able to find it when he wakes up again, so instead he types out a solemn and resolute ‘fuck u gallagher’ and hits send.

His phone chimes again right as he’s rolled over and gotten comfortable. It’s another photo, of Ian’s face with the sunrise in the background. His middle finger is up. Mickey can’t think of anything to say to that so he shoves his phone under his pillow.

“Do you get this shit too?” he asks Mandy when he gets up again, holding up his phone with the photo of the sunrise. She nods through a mouthful of cereal.

“I think it’s sweet,” she says. “Ian’s sweet.”

“Yeah,” Mickey dumps Lucky Charms into a bowl, splashes milk over them. He pours himself a cup of coffee and adds sugar. “Sweet. Sure. That’s what you call it.”

“Mickey,” Mandy stares pointedly at his cereal. “You and I both know you like ‘em sweet.”

“I’m a grown ass man and I will eat whatever I want for breakfast,” Mickey says, and relocates his cereal to the couch to eat it free of judgement.

* * *

 

They’re getting ready to play at the bar the next Friday, Mickey onstage tuning his guitar and Mandy helping Svetlana and set out t-shirts, when Mickey’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He sighs as he tugs it out, and it’s a text from Ian: “ur shoe is untied.” Mickey glances down to see his left boot is trailing its laces, then up at Ian, who’s leaning up against the bar looking bored with his back turned to Mickey. Mickey reties his shoe. Halfway through their set, when Ian brings them both a beer, Mickey grabs at his shirt collar as he’s about to turn and walk away.

“You’re an asshole,” he says. “You could have just walked across the room to tell me my fucking shoe was untied, you know.”

“I know,” Ian says. “You do this thing when you’re mad, do you know you do it? You rub at the corner of your mouth with your thumb.” Mickey, about to rub the corner of his mouth with his thumb, drops his hand to his side.

“I do this other thing when I’m mad,” Mickey snaps back. “It’s called hitting you in the face until you shut up.”

“Letting your knuckles do as advertised, huh?” Ian twists so his shirt collar slips out of Mickey’s hand and points at the ink on Mickey’s fingers

“Nobody can say I didn’t warn ‘em,” Mickey says. “It’s conveniently spelled out right on my fists.”

“Yeah, they get a nice clear view for about five seconds before your fist hits their jaw. Do you usually hit people with the ‘fuck’ hand or the ‘you up’ one?”

“Hold ‘em down with ‘you up,’ hit ‘em with ‘fuck.’ Get back to work, asshole.”

Ian flips him off as he trots back across the room.

Annoying, Mickey sighs as he checks the tuning on his guitar. Ian is annoying. 

* * *

 

Ian has three days off in the middle of the week so he spends his afternoons watching Liam for Fiona, because Debbie is busy with a collection of after-school activities, Carl is Carl, she’s working full-time and Lip moved out years ago. Watching Liam mostly consists of taking him to various parks, because the weather is nice and it beats sitting around the house. He feels more like he’s going somewhere when he’s being active, and with school out his days are considerably less busy. And sitting around the house always leaves the possibility of running into Frank, who still occasionally shows up unexpectedly without telling anyone why he’s there or how long he’ll be staying, and nobody wants that.

It makes Ian feel weird, somewhat nostalgic and generally much older than he actually is when he takes Liam to baseball diamonds and playgrounds that he used to fuck around in as a kid with Lip. Time is a bizarre and malleable thing in Ian’s mind, and tossing a baseball to Liam on a hot Wednesday afternoon in the diamond that Fiona used to toss baseballs to him in is a concrete reminder that he’s grown up, he’s 21 and doesn’t really live here anymore. Hasn’t, really, for years.

Liam tosses the baseball back to him and it collides solidly into Ian’s glove. “Nice one!” He shouts, and Liam, now seven years old with a mop of curls and dirty knees, runs over to him to give him a high five. They decide to walk back to the house to meet Fiona, who’s coming home in an hour. Ian has somehow ended up being Liam’s favorite sibling, despite his somewhat erratic presence in their household over the last four years due to the military and the surprising realization that he qualifies for the G.I. bill. Maybe because of it, Ian thinks as Liam runs up the steps to the house and kicks off his shoes. You’re always more fond of the absent parent than of the one who’s in your face telling you to brush your teeth and fold your socks.

There’s enough crashing and banging from the upper floor of the house to indicate that Carl is home, and the backpack on the kitchen table suggests Debbie at least came and went. “I’m gonna go play upstairs!” Liam announces, and Ian sits down at the kitchen table, shoving some ancient action figures, two bread knives and a beer bottle out of the way. He opens a beer himself and digs a little notebook out of his jacket pocket, chews on the end of his pen and tries to think about how he’s felt today.

Ian went from the army to a doctor’s office in Chicago, and left the doctor with three prescriptions and a therapy appointment that he didn’t attend. He went to the next one, eventually, and for the last year has been instructed to write down his mood in a little black flip notebook he carries around in his pocket. It was, at first, infantilizing, until he began to realize his moods come in patterns and tracking them is actually useful. Now it’s part of his routine.

“Fucking hot,” Ian starts to write in the notebook. “Enamored with someone who used to beat kids up for drugs in my high school parking lot.” He’s interrupted from getting any further by the front door slamming open. Both Fiona and Lip walk into the house, Fiona dressed in business-casual, Lip dressed like Lip is always dressed. Lip dresses like he doesn't seem to realize that he’s no longer in college and in fact works as a robotics engineer and makes more money than any of them have ever made in their lives.

“Thanks for watching Liam,” Fiona says, sighing as she slips her heels off. “Lip kindly volunteered to come get me so I wouldn't have to take the El. Want to stick around for dinner? We’re having lasagna.”

“Sounds good,” Ian gives Lip a high five as he passes on his way to the fridge.

“Feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Fiona takes the beer Lip passes her and tugs her hair out of its ponytail.

“I’ve been busy, I dunno,” Ian stuffs his notebook back into his pocket. “Not like you haven’t. You’re working your ass off these days.” Which is true, but Fiona is always working her ass off. She smiles at him.

“Yeah, busy palling around with Mandy Milkovich,” Lip says, throwing himself into a chair across from Ian and trying to prop his feet up on Ian’s knee.

“Mandy’s a lot better company than you are,” Ian shoves Lip’s feet onto the floor. “Less smelly, funnier and definitely better looking. And I’ve been working a lot too, not just fucking around with Mandy. Other stuff too, I don’t know.”

“Other stuff?” Fiona raises her eyebrows and pauses putting the lasagna into the oven.

“Yeah, you know, a social life. I have to make up for you all somehow.” Ian tries very hard to make his voice sound nonchalant but he fails at it. He’s always failed at being deadpan or nonchalant. That’s Lip’s schtick. Ian’s seems to be blushing when he even starts to think about Mickey Milkovich, and cursing the fact that he’s a redhead.

“Ian!” Fiona looks delighted. “Who is it?”

“It’s nobody! Would you feel stupid if by ‘other stuff’ I meant I’ve decided to learn the oboe, or I’ve picked up roller derby?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t,” Lip says. “And anyway, you can’t stay upright on ice skates to save your life.”

“Are you seeing someone?” Fiona closes the oven door and comes around the kitchen island to lean up against the back of Lip’s chair. Ian sighs. Usually he and Lip are on the same side of things, being closest in age to each other. But lately, well really since last summer, Lip and Fiona will end up scrutinizing him about something together. They’re an indomitable force when their strengths are combined, and Ian is mostly just glad they weren’t like this when he was in high school. He’s pretty sure they sit around and talk about him when he isn’t home.

“No,” he says, but because he knows he’s terrible at lying outright he continues, “I like someone, I guess. Don’t blow a fuse, it’s probably not going anywhere.”

“Who?” Fiona asks, but then like an angel of mercy has heard Ian’s internal pleading something very loud and heavy-sounding crashes from upstairs. “CARL!” Fiona shouts, and takes off to investigate, leaving Lip grinning at Ian like a demon.

“Fuck off,” Ian says, but gives in. “It’s Mandy’s brother.”

Lip blinks. “You’ve got the hots for Mickey Milkovich?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together. “Like-- Terry Milkovich’s kid Mickey? Who used to shoplift from the Kash and Grab and could probably count the number of showers he’s taken on one hand?”

“That’s what I said,” Ian says. “And you can't talk, seeing as you have exactly no room to judge based on some of the people you’ve fucked.” Lip snorts, because it’s true. “Anyway, I didn’t really know Mickey in high school. He’s cool. Mandy’s cool too. I don’t know why people were always dickheads about them.”

“Because their dad’s a white supremacist?” Lip snorts and lights a cigarette.

“Yeah, and ours is a great example of a kind, caring, well-rounded father figure.”

“Good point. Did I meet him on Friday? I didn’t recognize him at all, but my back teeth were swimming in booze by that point so that could have been it.”

“You did,” Ian says.

“Well, he definitely showers now,” Lip says. “And does his hair.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Is Mickey gay?”

Ian shrugs to cover up the fact that he feels like wincing. Lip has many good qualities. Subtlety isn't one of them. “I think so? It’s not like I've asked him or anything.”

“Yeah, it’s generally a good idea not to just ask kids from this neighborhood that question,” Lip concedes.

“But Mandy’s mentioned some stuff that makes me think he might be. I could just have my ‘Please-Be-Gay’ goggles on again, of course.”

“Yeah, maybe you wanna get those adjusted,” Lip says, and Ian kicks him. They’re scuffling around when Fiona comes back into the room.

“Carl broke part of his bedroom door,” she says. “Broke it clean off. With a bowling ball! Why the fuck does he have a bowling ball in his bedroom, huh?”

Ian lets Lip go; Lip is red-faced and squashed under Ian’s arm. “We’ll take a look at it after dinner, Fee,” he says. “You should quit smoking.”

“You might pick it up again,” Lip wheezes, “if you want Southside thugs to suck-- Jesus!” Ian lunges at him to shut him up, and chases him up the stairs.

* * *

 

Mickey has just sat down at the bar after finishing up their gig on Friday with no plans other than drinking a beer and going to bed when someone taps him on the shoulder. It was a good show, one of their better ones maybe, and very well attended.

He turns, expecting someone he knows, and instead finds himself face to face with Dan Alexander, one of the managers of the radio station Q101. This is confirmed a second later when Alexander hands Mickey a card. He’s got the square-jawed groomed look that TV reporters often have, somewhat disguised by his leather jacket and boots, and he smiles at Mickey.

“Mickey Milkovich, right? Dan Alexander. Hey, great set, we’ve been playing your songs on our station you know, they’ve gotten great feedback.”

“Thanks, nice to meet ya,” Mickey takes the card, feeling a little dazzled. “Can I-- want a beer?”

“No thanks, I’ve had a few already. Hey, I was hoping to have a quick word with you and your sister about something, if you’ve got a second?”

“Sure--Mandy’s--” Mickey twists around in his seat and catches Mandy’s eye. She’s at the other end of the bar talking to Svetlana but she gets up and walks over when he motions to her. Alexander shakes her head, flashes his huge and slightly overwhelming smile at her too. There aren’t any available seats along the bar so Mickey turns around to tap the guy sitting on his left on the shoulder.

“Hey, mind getting up for a few, giving the lady a chair?” Mandy makes a face at Mickey behind Alexander’s back.

“Fuck off, buddy,” the man, tall with greasy dark hair and a hooked nose, scowls. Mickey crosses his arms and he gets up and moves, making sure to bump into Mickey’s side on purpose as he goes.

“Asshole,” Mandy says and sits down. “Dan. Nice to meet you, what can we do for you?”

“Well,” Alexander grins again. “As I was telling Mickey, we’ve had a great response from our listeners to your songs, and we’ve had people telling us about these shows you’ve been doing here so I had to come check you out myself and frankly I was blown away!”

The guy is cheesy but sincere, and Mickey glances over to Mandy and smiles. “Thanks,” Mandy says. “That’s real nice of you to say.”

“So I’d like to ask you--” Alexander continues, and Mickey shoves his hands into his jacket pockets to listen, then stops when he notices his left pocket is suspiciously empty.

“Fuck,” he says, “Hold on, I’m sorry, that fucker stole my wallet! It was in my fucking pocket and now it’s fucking gone!”

“Shit!” Mandy says. "What was in it?"

"Only sixty bucks in cash, my driver's license and five pages of song lyrics," Mickey groans. 

“Want me to give the cops a call?” Alexander starts to pull his phone out of his own pocket right as Ian, who’s working as usual, walks over to pick up Mickey’s glass.

“No, don’t call the fucking cops-- shit-- Gallagher! You know the guy who was sitting here? He just took off with my fucking wallet!”

Ian frowns. “Um,” he says, “Tall guy? Big nose?” Mickey nods emphatically. “Yeah, his name’s Rick, he’s always in here eyeing the cash register. Did he really grab it? He lives close by, I can show you where. I bet we can catch him, I just saw him leaving.”

“Yes he really did, Jesus Christ,” Mickey stands up. “Mandy-- stay here and have this important conversation. Gallager, I’m right in thinking you don’t have a baseball bat behind the bar?”

“Wrong kind of bar,” Ian says. “I’m sure we can improvise.” And Mickey follows him out the door.

Ian takes off down the sidewalk and makes a sharp right and vanishes between two buildings; Mickey has to put on some speed to catch up with him and when he does he grabs him by the elbow.

“Not all of us have the legs of a gazelle you know,” he snaps, and Ian grins and slows down and they turn the next corner together and find themselves at the back of a set of apartments.

To Mickey’s surprise and luck, the hook-nosed wallet stealer Rick is leaning against a building with a cigarette between his lips. He starts when he sees Mickey and Ian turn the corner and takes a few steps backwards with his fists up.

“I know you’ve got it, douchebag, so hand it over and we’ll turn around and go back to the bar like nothing happened,” Mickey says, holding his left hand out.

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Rick says. For someone with such a big nose he’s got an awfully nasally voice.

“My wallet, chuckles. Cough it up and I’ll leave your nose the same shape it’s in.”

“Don’t know why you’d want that, but hey,” Ian says, and Mickey coughs down a snort.

“I didn’t do anything you assholes!”

“We have you on the bar’s security footage, Rick. Give the wallet back and there’ll be no trouble.” Ian is probably lying, but he says it with such seriousness that Mickey believes him. Rick sighs, drops his hands and reaches into his jacket pocket for Mickey’s wallet. He reaches it out in Mickey’s direction, and Mickey steps forward and snatches it out of his hand. He flips it open and rifles through it, counting the cash inside. Nothing seems to be missing.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” he says cheerfully. Rick’s pointy face visibly relaxes. “And also,” Mickey adds, “fuck you!” He grabs at Rick’s shoulder with the hand not holding the wallet and knees him in the gut so he collapses over sideways.

“You little shithead!” Rick gasps, out of breath. “You little--”

Mickey books it back the way they came, with Ian at his heels. They run past the bar and around a corner until they’re well out of sight and then Mickey stops so abruptly Ian almost crashes into him. Mickey shoves him a little, playfully, and Ian hipchecks him so he bounces back up against the wall and they both burst out laughing.

“I’m supposed to be working,” Ian says. “If I get fired it’s entirely your fault, okay?”

“I’m supposed to be talking to the manager of a fucking radio station!” Mickey manages to say, and Ian stares at him, his laughter momentarily suppressed.

“Then stop fucking around and go talk to him!” Ian shoves Mickey back towards the bar and Mickey shoves him back for good measure, but goes.

Mandy and Dan Alexander are still sitting at the bar when Mickey walks back in. “Get it back?” Alexander asks, and Mickey nods.

“Yeah, that was pretty fucking rude of me to run off in the middle of our conversation,” Mickey says. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I’m thinking of renaming the band Mandy and the Inconsiderate Assholes,” Mandy says, and Alexander laughs.

“See, this is what I really like about you kids,” he says. “You’re authentic, you really are. You are exactly who you are and I like that about you. I’ve been telling Mandy that I think you’re great, I really do, and I’d like to have you guys come and do a live show in our studio in a few weeks.”

“What? Really?” Mickey pauses to make sure he's heard this correctly, taken aback. Mandy grabs his arm so tight it hurts and bounces up and down in her chair, her eyes bright. “That’s what you came here to ask us?”

“Sure is,” Alexander says. “It’d be you and a few other local acts, an hour set with a pretty big crowd and we’d broadcast it live.”

“It’s amazing, right?” Mandy is obviously working very hard to keep her voice down. Mickey feels like he might be dreaming. Hallucinating, maybe.

“You're not fucking with us? You're serious,” he says.

“Absolutely. One of our DJ’s saw your show here a few weeks ago and has been coming back since. They recommended you to me and after seeing you tonight, I agree. Mandy guessed your answer would be yes. Was she right?”

“Fuck yeah she’s right!” Mickey says, trying to sound composed. On a whim, he leans over and smacks a kiss onto Mandy’s cheek. “You gotta let us buy you a drink for that.”

* * *

 

They end up taking the bus home and buying a bottle of whiskey on the way with Ian, of course, in tow as he always seems to be. Mickey falls asleep around midnight with Mandy and Ian still giggling in the next room. He wakes up, miraculously not hungover, when he phone buzzes around seven. Mickey doesn't even bother to look at who the text is from. He rolls over and shouts, “Gallagher!”

There’s a great deal of banging around coming from the direction of the kitchen but Ian doesn't respond. Mickey’s phone goes off again a second later, and he swears and fumbles around on his bedside table to grab it. “i’m making pancakes,” the text reads. The previous one says “where is your frying pan.”

Mickey stretches his hands over his head and marvels at the fact that he should be made that he was woken, but isn't. He didn't close the blinds on his window when he fell asleep so he can see a swatch of soft morning sky with a few wispy clouds in his line of sight. A bird chirps, as if it wants to confirm that it is indeed a lovely morning and he should get up and enjoy it for once. The apartment smells like coffee. Mickey feels like he’s in a commercial. And then his phone buzzes again.

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher!” Mickey shouts. “Can’t a guy lay in bed in his own fucking house?”

“That wasn’t me!” Ian yells back from the kitchen.

“Shut up!” Mandy’s voice, from her bedroom. Mickey gives up, flips the covers off, pulls on a shirt and shuffles into the kitchen for coffee.

“Didn’t know we acquired a housewife,” Mickey says to Ian, who is flipping pancakes at their stovetop. He’s opened the windows in the kitchen and made a pot of coffee and his bright hair is making a golden-red halo around his head in the sunshine coming through the windows.

“You have to be nice to me to get breakfast,” Ian looks as stupidly cheerful as always, even with mussed hair and the puffy look around the eyes some people get when they’ve been drinking.

“Right, my apologies, you’re my fucking hero.” Mickey pours himself coffee and glances at his phone. “Oh, Svetlana’s having a party next weekend. Saturday. Why is she even awake right now?”

“Yeah I know, she invited me too,” Ian says.

“You woke me up at seven in the fucking morning, give me some breakfast,” Mickey snaps, and Ian flips three pancakes onto a plate for him. They’re really good. Mandy comes out of her bedroom a minute later and sits down next to Mickey, and the three of them eat breakfast together.

In his head, Mickey amends his thoughts from the week before. Ian Gallagher is a little annoying, but Ian Gallagher is also funny, a little bit nuts, definitely good looking and overall not really bad company at all.


	8. Part Two: iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yo, sleepyhead,” he says, “you just gonna let strangers wander into your apartment or what?”
> 
> “Fuck off Lip,” Ian mumbles.
> 
> “It’s Mickey, asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains discussion of some symptoms of bipolar disorder, and a mention of suicide

When Mickey and Mandy get to the Empty Bottle on Friday, Ian isn’t at the bar. He’s become such a fixture there that it takes Mickey a minute to place what feels off; as they lug their stuff inside he wonders if they’ve moved some furniture around or something before he realizes what’s different. Nobody shouting his name from the bar. He remembers Ian saying he’d see them Friday, too, so it’s weird he isn’t here.

“Where’s Gallagher at?” he asks Mandy.

“I don’t know, maybe he’s running late or he’s sick or something?” Mandy shrugs as she unfolds her keyboard. Mickey sighs and stumps over to the bartender, the young women whose name he doesn’t recall. Susan or something.

“Hey, Ian Gallagher working today?” he asks. She shakes her head.

“Nope, he called in sick this morning. I’m filling in for him tonight.”

“Know what’s wrong with him?”

“He’s sick, I dunno,” the girl rolls her eyes and Mickey turns around back to Mandy.

“We’re about to play, and I’m sure he’s fine,” she says exasperatedly. “You can check on him in the morning you big baby.”

Mickey knows he’s right but he still feels worried, and halfway through the set when the girl bartender smiles and hands him a beer his stomach drops even more. It’s just not the same.

* * *

 

He does go over to Ian’s the next morning around ten, after texting him and getting no response. He’d woken up on his own at 5 a.m. expecting his phone to go off with a stupid photo from one of Ian’s stupid runs, but it doesn't, which makes up his mind. Mandy rolls her eyes when he leaves the house and Mickey ignores her, stops himself from feeling silly. When he knocks on Ian’s door there isn't any response, so he knocks again, more insistently. Nothing.

“Ian!” He calls. “Open up!”

“I’m not home,” Ian’s voice, very muffled, comes through the door. Mickey automatically pats down his pockets for something to pick the lock with, stops himself, and tries the door. It’s unlocked so he lets himself in.

Ian’s apartment wasn’t exactly tidy when Mickey saw it previously but at the moment it’s a mess; there’s a stack of unwashed dishes in the sink and a less-than-half-eaten pizza sitting on the counter, and all the blinds are closed and the lights off. The couch, which is usually in the center of the room, has been pushed closer to the wall and the television is on but muted. There’s an Ian-shaped lump of blankets lying on the floor between the couch and the television and Mickey climbs over the sofa and pokes at him with one foot.

“Yo, sleepyhead,” he says, “you just gonna let strangers wander into your apartment or what?”

“Fuck off Lip,” Ian mumbles.

“It’s Mickey, asshole.” Ian flips the blanket off his head and blinks blearily up at him. His hair is mussed and he doesn't look ill necessarily but he does look worn out, out of focus and dull. He’s usually so bright eyed, so peppy and enthusiastic and all there. Ian looks at Mickey like he isn't even registering he’s standing in front of him.

“Fuck,” he says, and Mickey thinks that’s all he’s going to say until Ian rubs at his eyes and continues, “I’m-- what are you doing here?”

“Heard you called in sick yesterday, thought I’d check in and see if you needed some chicken soup or a stiff drink.” Mickey glances around the apartment. “I’d start with a little vitamin D though, open a window or something.”

“Oh,” Ian props himself up on his elbows, moving slowly and sluggishly. “Yeah, I guess you did text me. Meant to respond and I forgot, sorry.”

“No worries,” Mickey wonders if he is really sick. He’s never really seen Ian act like this. “Need me to make a run for, I don’t know, some Pepto Bismal? Sudafed? Marijuana?”

“Not that kind of sick,” Ian slides himself up from the floor to the couch. It seems like it takes an incredible amount of effort. “Glass of water’d be great.”

“Sure thing, mumbles.” Mickey hops over the back of the couch again and fills a glass, opening the blinds in the kitchen as he does so. Ian drinks the water and sets the glass on the floor. “You okay?” Mickey asks.

“Not really,” Ian says.

“Because, no offense meant or anything, but you kinda look like shit.”

“Thanks, Mickey,” Ian mutters. “You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself.”

“I’m often complimented on my bedside manner,” Mickey says dryly. “Seriously though, Ian, you look like you got hit by a truck or something.”

Ian sighs and stretches. His back pops. “I have off days,” he says simply, “and this one’s pretty bad.”

“That’s shitty,” Mickey says, because he doesn't really know what else to say.

“Nice of you to come by but you really didn't need to,” Ian continues. “Was just planning to sleep all afternoon. It’s about all I’m good for anyway.”

“Is it gonna go away? Do you need anything? I can call your family--”

“No, fuck, don’t do that,” Ian says sourly. ‘It’ll ease up, eventually. It always has so far.”

“Do you wanna-- are you gonna--” Mickey pauses, trying to sort out what he wants to say, if it’s even a good thing to ask. Ian freezes, the line of his shoulders going rigid and his eyes going dark. There’s something scary and feral on his face. Something dangerous, buried underneath the surface of this lethargy which Mickey can only imagine is buried underneath how Ian usually is.

“I’m not gonna try and kill myself if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. Mickey stares at him, taken aback.

“Not what I said,” he says as quietly as he can. “Definitely not what I was thinking.”

Ian stares at him for another long moment, coiled tight line like a wire, then his whole body slumps and he collapses sideways onto the arm of the couch. “Fuck,” Ian drops his forehead into his hands. After a minute, Mickey puts a tentative hand on his bare shoulder. His skin is really warm.

“I was gonna ask if you want me to, I dunno, make you a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Give you some company. That’s all.”

“Shit,” Ian sighs. “I really jumped down your throat didn’t I? You don’t have to. I can’t imagine I’m very good company right now-- in fact I know I’m not. I don’t even want to be around myself.”

“Sure you are,” Mickey says. “My big plans for the day were gonna be watching Star Wars with my sister, and you’re much better company than her. If you want me around, anyway. Don’t wanna be all up on your ass if you wanna be left alone.” He winces at the choice of words but Ian doesn't notice, or doesn't comment.

“No, I don’t mind,” he says. “As long as you’re cool with sitting on the couch watching Star Wars and not, y’know, bowling or para-sailing or anything that involves movement faster than a slow crawl.”

“I really wasn’t kidding, I fucking love Star Wars. Get your ass up for a sec, I’m gonna move the couch back.” Mickey stands and Ian doesn't stand with him; almost subconsciously, Mickey slides his hand under Ian’s elbow and pulls him up. Ian’s left hand lands where Mickey’s shoulder meets his neck to steady himself.

“I’m gonna, uh,” Ian says. His face is very close to Mickey’s face and he smells like sweat and gym socks and the taste Mickey gets in the back of his throat when he’s really fucking scared. Mickey doesn’t mind. “Go wash my face or something,” Ian finishes, and shuffles around the couch, trailing a blanket behind him on the floor.

Mickey watches him walk into the bathroom and hears the faucet turn on, then he shoves the couch back a few feet, folds a few of the blankets that were piled in a heap on the floor and replaces the pillows. He opens another window. He walks into the kitchen and moves a few dishes from the sink to the dishwasher, and opens the cabinets.

“Yo,” he calls, “I’m gonna make some macaroni.” The water is still running in the bathroom and Ian doesn’t reply but he comes back into the room as the water starts boiling, his face and hair slightly wet. He must have stuck his whole head under the faucet.

“The DVD’s are somewhere, that shelf probably,” he says when Mickey hands him the bowl of pasta. There was only one clean bowl. Mickey slides the DVD into the player as Ian pokes at it without enthusiasm

“Empire Strikes Back? Yeah? Look a little more excited, c’mon.”

“You never struck me as someone who’s really enthusiastic about Star Wars,” Ian leans his head back against the back of the couch and draws his feet up under him, making himself as small as he can. He isn’t small but he looks it. Mickey wants to put his hand on his shoulder again. He has freckles on his ankles, and an old faded scar on his left calf. A childhood accident probably. He somehow manages to sound sardonic considering he looks half asleep again.

“You kidding? I fucking love Star Wars. I watched it so much as a kid I wore out the VHS’s. Stole a new set from the video store to replace ‘em. My dad was pissed.”

“Nerd,” Ian says.

“Tell me you didn’t watch them too, tough guy. I dare ya.”

“Nope.”

“You’re lying to me. You watched ‘em as a kid and you like Harrison Ford.”

“Shut up,” Ian says, but he’s smiling and his eyes twinkle and Mickey feels a little better. The movie starts and Mickey reads the opening credits aloud. Ian kicks him in the abdomen so he sings the Imperial march instead, accompanying himself on air guitar. Twenty minutes later Luke Skywalker is escaping Hoth and Ian is asleep again, his head tilted sideways so it’s almost on Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey watches his sleeping face for a few minutes; Ian’s mouth is open and his shoulders hunched. He could count the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose and where his eyelashes meet his cheeks if he wanted to. A lock of Ian’s hair has fallen into his face and Mickey pushes it back as gently as he can.

He could probably leave, should probably leave to help Svetlana set up for her party, but he doesn’t. He eats the rest of the pasta and watches the movie to the end of the credits, and when he finally leaves he drapes a blanket around Ian’s shoulder and puts the dish into the dishwasher.


	9. Part Two: iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody’s ever accused him of being book-smart, sure, but he’s still no idiot. He’s survived as long as he has by taking nobody’s shit and being careful and right now he’s standing in a yard full of people with Ian, shirtless, turning a thousand-watt smile and big green puppy-dog eyes on at him and it isn’t smart or careful at all. He wants to say fuck off.

Svetlana’s party is a fantastic success, as they always are. It’s about the only time Mickey can contend with European dance music, which is all she’ll play, or vodka, which is all she’ll drink. Mickey and Mandy both stay until Svetlana kicks everyone out, Mickey pukes up about a bottle and a half of imported alcohol under Svetlana’s table and falls asleep on her couch around three. He wakes a few hours later to go to the bathroom, dislodging Mandy who had passed out with her head on his stomach like she used to when they were little.

Svetlana is awake and clad  in a pink floral bathrobe when Mickey stumbles out of the bathroom into the kitchen for a glass of water. His mouth tastes like an old shoe. Svetlana wordlessly hands him a glass and nods at him.

“You want Bloody Mary?” she asks, and Mickey lights up immediately. “No tomato juice here, we go down the street. Mandy!”

Mandy mumbles something unintelligible from the couch.

“We leave her. Put a shirt on, come on,” Svetlana wanders into her bedroom to change.

It’s after 10 am so the Empty Bottle is open, but mostly empty. Mickey buys them both two of the most enormous and red Bloody Mary’s he’s ever seen and they’re halfway through them and both feeling a little more human.

“You work today?” Svetlana asks, and Mickey shakes his head. “Three o’clock for me,” she sighs. “Maybe I make a mistake.”

“No kidding,” Mickey bites into a pickle.

“Why didn’t Orange Boy come? You invite him?”

“He was sick,” Mickey says with his mouth full.

“Not too sick to carry large boxes,” Svetlana says.

“What?” She gestures behind her and Mickey turns around. To his surprise, Ian and a few other bartenders are walking in the back door, all of them carrying a collection of cardboard boxes and crates. He catches Mickey’s eye, sets a crate down with a grunt and walks over.

“Rough night?” He asks, grinning at their drinks. He’s in a tanktop and fraying jeans, and looks worn out but a thousand percent better than he did the day before. “Mandy make it or did you leave her for dead?”

“ _Bozhe moy_ ,” Svetlana says, shaking her head. “He puke under my kitchen table. Mandy sleeps.”

“Class act,” Ian laughs, and Mickey kicks at the heel of his sneaker. Ian dodges it. “Sorry I missed it, Svetlana. I was really under the weather.”

“Is no problem,” Svetlana favors him with one of her warmest smiles.

“You working today?” Mickey asks. Ian shakes his head.

“Nah, just helping them bring in a delivery. Got a family thing tonight- Lip’s coming by around one. Why, what’s up?”

“Do you wanna--” Mickey glances apologetically at Svetlana, who rolls her eyes. “Breakfast? I could eat enough pancakes for three people right now.”

“Sounds good! Let me just finish up here,” Ian says, and turns back to the back door of the bar. Svetlana sighs.

“Fine, go, leave me here in my misery,” she says, slurping her drink.

They walk down the street to the diner, and because it’s a nice day and Mickey wants to smoke they sit outside on the porch. Mickey orders a huge stack of pancakes and coffee. Ian gets an enormous omelette and sausage and toast. They eat contentedly for a few minutes, Mickey dumping sugar into his coffee and smothering his pancakes in syrup, and then Ian abruptly pushes back his half-empty plate and clears his throat.

“Um, thanks,” he says, “for yesterday, you know.” Mickey stops eating and licks syrup off his thumb.  

“You’re welcome,” he says, “but I didn’t do anything really. Ate your food and watched a movie on your couch, really exerted myself.”

“And didn’t even lock the door when you left, shameful,” Ian slurps his coffee. “But really. It was nice of you to check on me, nicer of you to stick around. A lot of people get pretty freaked out by that shit.”

“You look better today,” Mickey says, takes a drag on his cigarette to cover up the fact that this isn’t usually the kind of thing you say to your friends.

“Feel better. Better enough, anyway.” Ian pauses, stares into his coffee cup and chews on his lip. Mickey takes another drag on the cigarette. He can feel that Ian’s moving words around inside his head. He’s sitting on the edge of some kind of confession, an explanation maybe, something he has to be sure he can trust Mickey with. They’re sitting at a little table in the sun and the air is warm but it suddenly feels even warmer, and Mickey’s heart rate jumps up for no reason. He exhales, and smoke rises up into the space between them on the table.

“Hey--” he starts, with the intention of telling Ian that there’s no reason to, he doesn’t need to if he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t owe Mickey an explanation.

“I’m bipolar,” Ian says. The words leave him in a rush. He says it more to his coffee cup than to Mickey. “That’s what all that shit was-- what all this shit always is.” He gestures at himself and shrugs halfheartedly. “It’s usually pretty under control. Until it isn’t, anyway. You just caught me at a, uh, a pretty crappy moment yesterday.”

“That’s seriously shitty,” Mickey says, because it is. “You gonna be okay?”

“As okay as I ever am,” Ian says. “Yes, I’ll be fine. It catches me off guard every now and then. Used to be a lot worse.”

“Well you didn’t miss much,” Mickey says, returning his attention to his pancakes. “At the party. Just the incredibly dignified sight of me up-chucking.”

“Yeah, as thrilling as that sounds--” Ian snorts, and Mickey flings his paper napkin at him. Mickey stubs out his cigarette and is reaching into his pocket for another one when Ian clears his throat again and drums his fingers on the edge of the coffee cup. He glances up at Mickey, and his eyes are very green. “That’s my big thing you outta know before you wade into this friendship, I guess.”

“Everybody’s got their own shit they gotta deal with, don’t mean I’m wading into anything,” Mickey says quickly. “Fuck, I mean look at me and Mandy. Runaways from an abusive family who formed a fucking folk band? We’re some therapist’s wet dream right there.”

“What?” Ian pauses with his coffee cup half to his mouth.

“Nothing,” Mickey hadn’t really meant to say that out loud. “Conversation for another time. Point is, there’s nothing about you I gotta know before hanging out with you. Fuck. What kinda fucking guy do you think I am? A fucking judgement asshole or something? Fuck you, Gallagher.” He stabs his fork as viciously as he can into his pancake and glowers at Ian, who’s staring at him with his coffee cup still poised in the air.

“Stop staring at me and eat your fucking omelette,” Mickey shovels the pancakes into his mouth, and Ian bursts out laughing.

* * *

 

They walk back to Ian’s apartment together, Mickey with the intention of catching a bus back home when Ian has to go to meet his brother. They find Ian’s apartment door already unlocked, and Lip is leaning against the kitchen counter with a cigarette in his mouth, flipping through a book. Lit in something other than smoky dim barlights, Lip Gallagher looks familiar to Mickey in the very distant way both their names are familiar to him.

“Yo,” he says when Ian opens the door. “Sorry I’m early, I thought you were gonna be home-- oh--”

“Shut up,” Ian says, cutting whatever Lip is about to say off. Lip wiggles his eyebrows at Ian, who snatches the book out of Lip’s hands. “It’s gonna smell like cigarettes you jackass. I’m gonna sell it back next semester and nobody will wanna buy it if it smells like an ashtray.”

“The only good use for ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ is as an ashtray,” Lip says. “I’m pretty sure I was supposed to read it too and I’m pretty sure I didn’t. How’s it going-- Mickey, right?” He turns and extends his hand to Mickey, shakes it. “You, Ian, smell like sweat and waffles. New cologne?”

“I had to help move some boxes in at work,” Ian shrugs. “You gotta wait while I shower. What you get for showing up early. Oh shit! I’m a dick. Mickey!”

“That’s my name.” Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“I was gonna ask you at Svetlana’s party and then, you know, whatever. You doing anything tonight? Wanna come along to our barbecue? Free food, free beer. I asked Mandy too but she’s busy.”

“Oh, well,” Mickey frowns. “I don’t want to be in the way if it’s a family get together.”

“If by ‘family thing’ you mean a whole load of people, half of which are named Gallagher, get together and eat burgers and get shitfaced, then yeah it is,” Lip says.

What the hell, Mickey thinks. Free burgers. “Sure,” he says. “Why not.”

Lip crushes his cigarette on a plate sitting on the counter. “Will you get your ass in the shower? We’re gonna be late.”

“You have time to run me home so I can get a clean shirt?” Mickey asks. “This one’s the survivor of last night’s party and it probably doesn’t smell great either.”

“Just pick out one of mine,” Ian says, his voice slightly muffled as he wanders away into his bedroom. “There’s a clean basket of clothes on the dryer.”

“I’m not a fucking girl, Gallagher,” Mickey snaps, feeling annoyed that the idea of going through Ian’s clean laundry and wearing Ian’s shirt makes him feel like he wants to vomit all over again.

“Don’t let Mandy hear you say that,” Ian pokes his head around his bedroom door. He’s halfway through pulling his own shirt over his head and he does so, chucking it over his shoulder towards another pile of laundry. With his shirt off, Ian’s shoulders are impossibly freckly. His stomach is pale and flat, and there is a barely visible line of red hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. Mickey’s mouth automatically wants to ask if the carpet matches the drapes. He runs his mouth when he’s nervous or mad. He knows he does. It’s never been a good trait. “There’s a blue plaid in that basket,” Ian leans against the doorframe to his bedroom. From this angle Mickey can see he has a tattoo on his ribcage.. “It’s small on me so it’ll probably fit.”

“Fuck you very much.” Mickey makes himself walk across the room and dig through the laundry til he sees blue plaid.

“Is that a falcon?” He asks, gesturing at the tattoo. Ian’s mouth twists.

“An eagle,” he says.

“Carrying a shotgun?”

“Look, you don’t have a monopoly on stupid sixteen-year-old tattoos,” Ian says. “I thought it was real cool at the time.”

“It’s--” Mickey wants to say something nice. He can’t. “Ridiculous. It’s ridiculous.”

“Says the man whose right knuckles will make mothers wince and cover their kids’ eyes forever,” Ian counters.

“Will you take a fucking shower?” Lip snaps from behind them, and Ian laughs and pushes past Mickey to go into the bathroom. Mickey sighs and comes back into the kitchen, shrugging yesterday’s shirt over his head and pulling on Ian’s. It does fit him, almost perfectly. “We gotta pick up charcoal for Kev on our way,” Lip says. He’s lighting another cigarette, and gestures at Mickey with the lighter, raising an eyebrow. Mickey pulls out another smoke and lets Lip light it. “He’s grilling. I set up our crappy ass pool yesterday, too. Always fun, so long as Frank doesn’t show up and break it again like he did last summer.”

“Think he’s gonna?” Ian’s voice says from the bathroom. The water in the shower turns on.

“Who knows,” Lip shrugs, putting his lighter back in his pocket. “Debs says they haven’t seen him in a few days and when they did see him he thought he was on E.”

“Christ,” Ian’s voice says.

“Wait--” Mickey has to put a halt on the conversation before it continues off the way Ian and Lip’s conversations seem to. “By Frank do you mean Frank Gallagher? Like, passes out in public parks Frank Gallagher?” Lip eyes him, nods. “You related or something?”

“”Uh,” Lip removes the cigarette from his mouth. “Yeah. Or something. We’re his kids, unfortunately.” Mickey frowns at him, his confusion about why he finds Lip so familiar-looking easing up. He definitely has seen him before. It’s just been years.

“You didn’t know that?” Ian’s head appears around the bathroom door, his hair wet. “We went to the same high school! Mandy and I had a class together, even. We live, like, down the block.”

“Gallagher’s a common name, alright?” Mickey snaps. “There were like fifteen of you in school with me and I haven’t lived there in a long ass time, how the fuck am I supposed to remember which of you are Frank Gallagher’s kids?”

“Shower!” Lip shouts. “Ian! Jesus!” Ian’s head disappears around the door again. “I suppose you’ve forgotten I wrote a paper for you once.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, tenth grade English or something.”

“You get an A on it?”

“B plus, I think,” Lip shrug, and Mickey’s memory is jogged a little more. Lip Gallager, punk ass kid with a smart mouth who’d write term papers for money.

“You did that SAT test taking thing,” Mickey says, and Lip chuckles.

“Sure did, til I got caught. Then I decided I’d actually go to college and had to take it for real. Got a perfect score, if you’re wondering.” Mickey isn’t.

“I’m pretty sure my dad tried to kill your dad a few years back,” Mickey says. Terry had, because Frank Gallagher had slipped out of a business deal and Terry Milkovich deals with all of his problems in the same way: a pistol to the face. “Still want me at your picnic?”

“Makes you even more liked,” Lip says. “At this point it’s more surprising if someone hasn’t at least wished Frank dead. I tried to run him over with a car once.”

For some reason this makes Mickey feel better, though he can’t really say why. It’s spoiled a minute later when Ian comes out of the bathroom in a towel and nothing else and he has to pretend to cough on cigarette smoke to hide the fact that he finds himself staring at the line of Ian’s shoulders as he walks into his bedroom. When he’s finished fake-coughing, Lip gives him a raised eyebrow look that indicates he noticed, and Mickey finds himself thinking something that was a common refrain in his neighborhood as a kid: Fucking Gallagers.

* * *

 

Lip and Ian’s childhood house really is not far away from Mickey and Mandy’s childhood house, and that fact makes Mickey uneasy as Lip pulls his car alongside the curb. Mickey has probably walked past this house a hundred times. There are a crowd of people clustered around the back and a few more smoking on the porch, and there is what appears to be an ancient and rusty red bus in the middle of the yard. Ian and Lip both head up the pathway and around towards the bus and the back of the house, Lip carrying the bag of charcoal, and Mickey opens the car door slowly, wondering if maybe he’s made a mistake.

He hasn’t been back to this neighborhood in years. Not since the year he and Mandy ran. He knows Mandy has once or twice, to visit their brothers or see friends of hers, but after they left there wasn’t anything for Mickey to want to come back to. He does remember this street and the beat-up houses on it, and they don’t look any different. It’s unsettling. Standing in the road, he’s seventeen again and Terry could come around the next corner.

Terry’s in jail. Mickey knows this, but he doesn’t feel any less uneasy. He knows it’s stupid. That doesn’t help either.

“Shut the car door, wouldya?” Lip calls. “Can’t leave it unlocked in this neighborhood. Yo, Fiona!” Mickey does, and follows Ian, who glances over at him.

“You okay? You look like someone stabbed you in the gut.”

“Oh, thank you, thanks a lot,” Mickey says.

“Payback for your kind words yesterday.”

“I’m cool I just--” Mickey pauses. “Haven’t been back here in a long time.”

“Oh,” Ian says. His eyebrows draw together. “Sorry to drag you back.”

“Get me a beer and all’s forgiven,” Mickey says, and Ian laughs. They walk around the bus and the pool, or what passes for a pool on the Southside, comes into view. It’s made out of plywood and there are half a dozen kids splashing around in it and shrieking. Ian waves at a few people, gestures towards the top of Lip’s head near the back stairs and opens his mouth to say something. Before he can get it out something fast-moving and bright red collides heavily into his abdomen. Mickey can hear it. His reflex is to jump backwards, fists up, but then Ian is shouting delightedly and the red blur turns out to be a kid in a red t-shirt. Ian lifts him up into the air and the little boy with curly brown hair throws his arms around Ian’s neck and yells his name.

“Hey buddy!” Ian says. “I missed you too! Liam, this is Mickey, say hi to Mickey!” Liam waves from Ian’s shoulder.

“Why does Mickey have a bad word on his hand?” he says.

“His questionable judgement,” Ian sets him down heavily. “You’re too big for that bud. Where’s Fiona?” Liam points across the yard to a brown-haired woman that Mickey recognizes from the photos in Ian’s apartment, and vaguely from running around this neighborhood as a kid.

“Thank God its you!” Fiona Gallagher is wearing cutoff shorts and a tanktop, and has a beer in one hand. “I thought he’d gone and tackled some completely stranger! You must be Mickey, right? Fiona, how’s it going? Ian stop fucking around and go get him a beer or something, you weren’t raised in a barn!”

“Just the back of a van, sometimes,” Ian says.

“Take that up with Frank!” Fiona reaches up to ruffle Ian’s hair affectionately and dashes off after Liam.

“So that’s--”

“Oldest sister, youngest brother,” Ian says. “Debbie is over there by the pool, Carl’s sitting on top of the van-- Carl probably shouldn’t be sitting on top of the van-- CARL GET OFF THE VAN!” Carl slides down from the van, showing Ian his middle finger as he goes.

“Your sister said to stop fucking around and get me a beer,” Mickey jostles Ian’s elbow with his own. “So stop fucking around, and get me a beer. You’re a shitty host.”

“Shitty host?” Ian says in tones of mock concern. “Me? Alright, Mickey. I’m gonna stop fucking around and I’m gonna go get you a beer. You watching? Cause I’m gonna. I’m going now.” He throws up his hands, starts walking towards the coolers while still facing Mickey.

“Won’t believe it til I see it,” Mickey says.

“You better believe it,” Ian says, still walking backwards. “Hosting, successful. Beer, acquired. Just you wait.” He’s so intent on walking backwards and mocking Mickey that he walks right into the man at the grill, broad-shouldered and even taller than Ian with lots of long dark hair.

“Fucking Gallaghers!” He shouts, brandishing a spatula.

“Sorry!” Ian whirls around. “Sorry Kev!”

“Shitty host!” Mickey shouts. Ian skirts around the grill to grab three beers out of the cooler, handing one to Kev at the grill as he passes, then one to Mickey. He reaches out with his unopened can to toast the side of Mickey’s, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I coulda made you get it yourself,” he says.

“Alright fine, you’re not awful,” Mickey concedes. “Long as you don’t trip on your ass getting me a burger.”

“In your dreams,” Ian says. He grins. Despite himself and everything, Mickey grins back.

“”Ian!” Lip, across the yard, is waving his arms above his head. “We need two more for cornhole, get over here!”

“Make him finish his beer first,” Kev at the grill says. “You know he always beats you otherwise.”

“Fucking military training!” Lip yells. “Shotgun, Ian! Shotgun!”

“My shirt is clean!” Ian yells back. “I don’t wanna get beer all down it.”

“Take it off! C’mon, I want to play this game.”

Ian rolls his eyes and tugs his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to Mickey who catches it without thinking then wants to drop it again. It’s warm and it smells like Ian and he slings it over his shoulder so he doesn’t have to hold it in his hands. Ian accepts a bottle opener from Kev, punches a hole in the beercan and downs it, raising a hand over his head when he’s done. He probably could have done it without taking his shirt off again.

“I’m still gonna kick your ass,” he says, plucking his shirt from Mickey’s shoulder. “Kick Lip and Fiona’s ass with me at cornhole?”

Mickey wants to say no. Mickey wants to say that this whole thing was a mistake. That getting into the car with two Gallaghers and letting them drive him to the neighborhood he’s never really sure he’ll get both feet out of was a bad fucking idea, and that doing so with this ridiculous boy who’s gotten under his skin an even worse one. Mickey wants to say that he doesn’t do this. Nobody’s ever accused him of being book-smart, sure, but he’s still no idiot. He’s survived as long as he has by taking nobody’s shit and being careful and right now he’s standing in a yard full of people with Ian, shirtless, turning a thousand-watt smile and big green puppy-dog eyes on at him and it isn’t smart or careful at all. He wants to say fuck off.

When he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “You better not let me down, Gallagher.”

Ian doesn’t. Ian, as it turns out, has perfect aim. 


	10. Part Two: v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the dark, his eyes are very green. For some reason, Mickey gets a twist of nerves in his stomach, the kind of feeling he gets when he’s looking down from somewhere very high. Vertigo or something, his pulse elevating and his stomach plummeting and his heart bouncing up somewhere into his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some discussion of bipolar disorder as a content warning.  
> also, there's a richard siken reference thanks to cait queermandymilkovich. let me know if you catch it and you might win something (you can hmu at iangalager.tumblr.com)

Mickey ends up having a really good time. They win at cornhole, they eat burgers and drink beer and Ian sits on the edge of the pool with his feet in the water and flicks water at Debbie, who is more freckly than he is. A couple beers in, Ian convinces Mickey to play a few shitty covers on the really out of tune piano in their entrance room so by the time the sun is going down everyone is belting along to the worst performed version of ‘Wonderwall’ anyone has ever heard. Fiona starts shooing people away around ten, starts yelling at Carl and Debbie to go upstairs because there’s school tomorrow for God’s sake. Ian consents to reading Liam a bedtime story, so Mickey goes outside onto the porch to have a cigarette. Fiona shoves a chipped clay ashtray at him as he walks out the door. It looks like it was made by a kid sometime in the last ten years; there’s a faint set of initials on the bottom, “IG.” Mickey thinks about probably seven-year-old Ian making an ashtray in art class, and laughs a little.

Ian comes out to find him ten minutes later. “Sorry I couldn’t drag Mandy along,” he says, leaning up against the porch railing. “Other people’s family parties, the height of fun I know.”

“They’re alright,” Mickey says, shaking cigarette ash into the ashtray. “In a really white trash way, of course.”

“Oh fuck off.” Ian shifts so his elbows are propped up on the railing behind him and he’s facing Mickey with his back to the street. Everything is much quieter now that the party’s cleared out; someone, maybe Debbie, is singing somewhere inside the house and Kev is around the side of the house cleaning off the grill. A train is rattling by but that’s a noise Mickey is used to, even after all this time.

“Hey man, it’s not like I come from any better. My uncle’s favorite magazine is ‘Guns and Ammo’ and our family parties are considered a failure if at least one person doesn’t brawl. Mandy still carries a homemade shiv in her purse.” Ian snorts. It’s probably the alcohol that’s making Mickey so loquacious, that and the warm summer sun feeling he’s got in his bones. The sun’s been gone for almost an hour but he still feels warm. “She used to want to pretend we didn’t come from here but it’s no use really. Not like we can hide it. Nothing like coming back to really make you feel like you’re fucked for life, right?”

“I don’t think you’re fucked for life,” Ian says.

“Shows how much you know.”

“I don’t!” Ian protests.

“Yeah well you’re happy-go-lucky with a good dose of naivety, pal.”

Mickey’s mostly joking, but Ian’s eyebrows draw together. At first Mickey thinks he isn’t going to respond, then he shrugs. “I think I’m probably less naive than you think I am,” he says.

“Fooled me,” Mickey says. “You and your six in the morning sunrise photos and homemade breakfast and actually enjoying coming back to this shithole.” Ian’s watching him, his eyebrows still meeting over the bridge of his nose. “What? What’s with the zippidy do dah attitude, then?”

“There is another half to being manic depressive you know,” Ian says, and his voice is brittle, like it’ll shatter any second. “The less fun bit.”

“Shit,” Mickey says. “Sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“Well-- you’re feeling okay right now, right? I mean, you’re not always one or the other?”

“Beauty of modern medication and mood stabilizers,” Ian says. “Yeah.”

“And that’s not what I meant. Dumbass thing to say, sure, but not what I meant. I meant just in general.”

“Do you actually want an answer or are you just fucking with me?” Ian says.

Mickey had started the conversation just fucking with him but finds he isn’t anymore. “Hit me,” he says. “I’m not fucking with you.”

Ian eyes him for a minute, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Mickey gets the distinct impression he’s being scrutinized at the same time that Ian’s deciding what to say. He focuses on Ian’s chin, to avoid making eye contact.

“The last two years have been pretty shitty for me,” Ian says finally, his voice low. “The last year was hell.” Mickey blinks; this isn’t really what he expected Ian to say at all. “The last few months less so, I guess stuff’s been getting better with school and moving out and meeting Mandy and stuff. But this time last year was the worst my life’s ever been. And I’m a gay kid from a huge family with no money who grew up in this neighborhood.”

He has a point there. But Mickey doesn’t say anything, just stubs out his cigarette and turns so he’s facing Ian all the way.

“There was a while when I thought things would never get better,” Ian crosses and recrosses his arms, talking to his feet more than to Mickey. “And somedays they haven’t. The other day when you came by-- that was nothing. Compared to how it can be. And it’s only one end of it. It’s fucking scary.” He shrugs, says this like it’s a matter of fact. “But sometimes it’s like today, which was good. Real good. So I gotta enjoy it while it is, you know? It’s fucking cheesy, I know, shut up.”

“Didn’t say a thing,” Mickey holds up his hands. “Non-judgemental.”

“You were thinking it,” Ian says, but he glances up at Mickey and smiles. “I guess I want to get the most out of things without worrying all the time if I’m fucked for life. It is Disney movie bullshit, sure, but it helps.”

“Thanks for that, Prince Charming,” Mickey says.

“You’re wrong there,” Ian says, and takes a step closer to Mickey so the toe of his shoe is nearly touching Mickey’s boot. “I do not own a sword, and I can’t ride a horse.”

“Slaying dragons though?”

“Probably am the dragon. Slogging through mud, breathing fire, the whole nine yards.” Mickey rolls his eyes. “You aren’t though, you know.” Ian says, his voice even softer.

“A dragon? Thanks for noticing.”

“Fucked for life, I mean.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Mickey says, arching an eyebrow at Ian. Ian is looking at him with something on his face that Mickey can’t read, though it could be the shadowy porch and the effects of the beers in Mickey’s system obscuring his features. Even in the dark, his eyes are very green. For some reason, Mickey gets a twist of nerves in his stomach, the kind of feeling he gets when he’s looking down from somewhere very high. Vertigo or something, his pulse elevating and his stomach plummeting and his heart bouncing up somewhere into his throat.

“Good,” Ian says, and somehow he’s close enough that Mickey can feel the way his breath disturbs the night air when he chuckles a little. Mickey wants to open his mouth and say that he’s worried he might be having a heart attack or something because now his face feels hot and his heart is hammering hard enough that it’ll probably launch right out of his ribcage, like an Alien reenactment starring him instead of Sigourney Weaver. But doesn’t say that, doesn’t have the chance because suddenly Ian is leaning forward and Ian’s hand is on his shoulder and Ian is kissing him.

For one moment there is nothing else but that and the whole world is momentarily oriented to turn around the spot where Ian’s mouth is meeting his mouth. Nothing else but the way Ian’s skin feels against his own, the press of his lips and the pressure of his teeth behind them and the fact that he tastes like beer and beeswax chapstick and that his mouth is on Mickey’s, that he is kissing Mickey, that Mickey is being kissed, that he is--

The moment fades and the weight of this fact slams down on Mickey like something dropped onto his chest. He’s standing on a porch. Overlooking a street. A street filled with homes. With people living in them. Being kissed by a boy. A boy. Being kissed.

Mickey jerks backwards, smacking Ian’s hand off his shoulder. His stomach and his heart have both been misplaced, maybe inverted, and for a horrible moment he thinks he’s going to be sick. He can’t breathe. Ian is staring at him in alarm, the softness fading from his eyes and his mouth open and confused. Mickey wants to kiss him again. Wants to hit the expression right off his face. He glances desperately around him and his fists come up instinctively. The road is still dark, still quiet. He can’t see anybody through the window. It is, of course, impossible to say.

“What the fuck was that,” Mickey grates out, taking a few fast steps backwards so he’s standing at the very edge of the porch and the stairs. His lips, that had been kissed seconds ago, feel numb.

“I--” Ian’s mouth moves for a second and no sound comes out. “I thought-- I--”

“You did, did you?” Mickey snaps. The stomach-wrenching panic has his whole body feeling like it’s on fire. “Really thought that one through, huh? Disney movie bullshit, you got that right.”

“I thought--” Ian starts to say and Mickey turns around because he can’t look at his big green eyes and freckles and the lock of hair that’s fallen into his face for one more second. He stumbles down the steps of the porch and across the yard towards the street. “Mickey!” Ian’s feet on the wooden porch steps indicate he’s running down after him. “You--  I’m your ride!”

“I’ll catch a fucking bus,” Mickey snaps, walking out into the road. He’s halfway across when he stops and glances back, just once. Ian has stopped at the gate in front of the house, his shoulders and head backlit from light from inside. Mickey can’t see his expression. Doesn’t want to.

“Don’t fucking follow me,” Mickey snaps, then turns and walks as fast as he can up the street.

* * *

 

Ian doesn’t text Mickey on Monday morning. Mickey doesn’t expect him to.

* * *

 

Ian wakes up on Monday feeling unsure of himself. He’s always been frustrated by self-doubt as a waster of time and devourer of confidence, but since last year it’s become even more important that he knows where he stands. That he knows what he’s thinking is rational.

Irrationality isn’t Ian’s thing. Of any of them, it’s Lip’s (who had, after all, tried to run Frank over with a car once) but even Lip, in the years since high school, has put a lot of it behind him. It’s Monica’s. Ian wants the things he thinks to make sense and when he wakes up on Monday he knows they don’t. He gets up and goes on a very long run. He doesn’t text Mickey.

The thing in Ian’s head-- because that is somehow how he thinks about it, when he thinks about it, not an illness or a disorder but a _thing_ with scaly claws sunk into the soft stuff of his brain-- makes him feel like he’s shuffling through deep water in the dark. His objective isn’t clear and he can’t scope out where he’s going and at any moment he could wind up with his foot in a deep sinkhole with cold water up to his knees, or worse, trip and propel himself forward so he’s going with impossible momentum but no way to stop it. He never knows where his foot falls, not for sure. He never knows if ripples  in the water are just imagination or if they’re real.

He’d said he was the dragon, as a joke. Clambering around with no control, setting houses on fire, scaring everyone else. Not so funny.

He’d called a cab to take him home Sunday night, because the thought of sitting in the car with Lip while Lip asked him where Mickey had gone made Ian feel like punching something. He’d blurted out some excuse, something about early working hours, hugged Fiona and gone out to sit on the curb and wait for the cab. People down the street were yelling at each other from their porch. The cab driver, a little old Russian man with a puckered face, had told Ian in detail about his children and how they never came to visit him and that they were all ungrateful like their mother.

“What’s the saying?” he had asked as he was speeding through a red light in a way that made Ian wince. “Something about apples and trees?”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Ian had said. No kidding.

He had really thought-- but no. He had wanted. He’d wanted Mickey Milkovich to like him because for some godforsaken reason he had thought it could happen. That it would work out somehow. That it would make him feel good about himself, or something. There’s a reason Ian hasn’t gotten involved with anyone since-- well-- high school, really. Not in any way that would be considered serious. Now is probably not the right time, and Mickey almost definitely not the right person.

“Don’t fucking follow me,” Mickey had snapped at him, and Ian hadn’t, even though they’d been hanging out almost every day, even though Mickey had come to check on him and laughed at his stupid jokes and seemed to enjoy his company and sometimes looks at Ian and Ian swears he’s checking him out. Even though there’s something there. Or so Ian had thought.

There’s barely enough room in Ian’s head for Ian, he thinks as he comes up on the last mile of his run. What’s the point in pretending otherwise?

* * *

 

Mickey doesn’t intend to talk to Ian at the bar on Wednesday night, but he’s there and Ian is there. He’s only there because Svetlana wants to hit up their Wednesday night drink specials and he only notices he’s is even working when he’s leaning on the bar and glances up to find them face to face

Ian winces, and his jaw goes tight. For a moment Mickey thinks about getting up and waiting at the other bar for another bartender, but the place is packed and it’ll be ten more minutes at least. He sighs, and orders a beer and a vodka tonic for Svetlana.

“Coming right up,” Ian says in a clipped and way-too-formal tone. He slides the drinks across the bar a minute later. “Would you like to open a tab?”

“Yeah okay-- hey-- about Sunday--” Mickey starts talking before he really has a clear idea of what he’s going to say. You shouldn’t have fucking done that, or, You’re fucking insane, or, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it and I want to hit you in the face.

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, and he’s pissed as hell. He woke up thinking about it. Ian bites his lip, and Mickey’s thinking about it now.

“Look, don’t worry about it, okay? It’s not a big deal!” Ian says, and his voice is less clipped but too chipper. Mickey pauses. “Sometimes I have, oh, lapses in judgment, you know. Seeing stuff that isn’t there. On account of my, you know, brain stuff.” He wiggles his fingers on either side of his temple and grins and it’s not even a forced grin which is even more disturbing. “That’s probably all it was, right?”

“Uh--” Mickey says. “Sure. You don’t--”

Ian glances exasperatedly down the bar. “Look Mickey, I’m really sorry, It’s just packed in here tonight. I’m way busy. You did want to open a tab, right?”

“Yeah-- hold on--”

“I’m so swamped, sorry! Hey, what can I get you?” Ian is talking to the person behind Mickey, so Mickey picks up his beer and Svetlana’s vodka tonic and leaves.

He runs into Ian outside the bar’s bathrooms fifteen minutes later, completely on accident and negating the fact that Mickey can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the bar. Svetlana doesn’t seem to mind; she’s involved in a texting conversation that keeps making her giggle and she won’t tell Mickey who with.

He hates that he’s upset. He hates that he’s hung up on this and can’t let it rest until he tells Ian what’s what. And he hates that he gets up and walks to the bathroom when Ian leaves the bar, but he does it anyway.

Ian sighs even more heavily than before when Mickey passes him and stops in the hallway.

“Can I help you find something?” Ian asks, and that makes Mickey really mad. He grabs at Ian’s wrist and Ian twists a little to break free so Mickey holds on tighter.

“Cut the bullcrap,” he hisses.

“Let go of me,” Ian says, and his voice isn’t chipper anymore. Mickey glares at him. “Let go,” Ian repeats. “I can break your finger. All the knuckles on your hand if you’re unlucky. And I’m not in a great mood.” Mickey drops Ian’s wrist, raising his own hand up above his head with a sneer. “It’s not like you care, anyway,” Ian continues. “You made that pretty obvious.”

“Hold the fuck up,” Mickey says, because it’s a good a thing to say as anything. “Are you mad at me? You? Mad at me? That’s real hilarious, considering you’re the one who decided it would be a great idea to try out playing tonsil hockey in the middle of fucking Canaryville. I ought to be beating the shit out of you.” If Mickey had met Ian when he was still living in Canaryville, he definitely would have. Mickey is about to poke his finger into Ian’s chest but resists. He isn’t sure about how serious Ian is on that threat to break his finger.

“I’d like to see you give it a shot,” Ian says.

“I don’t need your dramatic weepy teenage girl bullshit in my life, got it?”

“Do you want me to be mad at you?” Ian is staring at him with what might be disbelief on his face. “Because you’re doing a great job, really are.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Mickey says.

“Don’t you?”

“No. I don’t fucking care if you’re angry or I hurt your feelings and if you try and do that again I’ll rip your fucking tongue out of your head.”

He turns and strides back into the bar because he doesn’t want to see the expression on Ian’s face.

 


	11. Part Three: i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve always liked Star Trek better,” Ian says.
> 
> “Did you get dropped on your head a lot when you were a kid?” Mickey asks incredulously. “Star Trek? Really?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably rate nc-17 or something

By the time Ian had known Mandy for two weeks, he feels like he’s known her for two years. Neither of them can really explain it, and Ian doesn’t even feel the need to. It just is. You can search your whole life for someone like Mandy and never find them at all, and the fact that Ian has found her now, during this summer at this point in his life, feels more like serendipity than coincidence. Ian’s never exactly been lacking in friends, or at least lacking in people to spend time with. But there’s a huge difference in people you know who you go to parties with or do homework with or suffer through boot camp with, and Mandy. Practically the minute Ian meets her he feels like he knows a book full of things about her: she thinks she looks best in black and wants to fall in love but is scared to and misses her mom and could probably run someone over with a car without feeling any remorse about it. He loves her for all this stuff. He doesn’t want to sound soppy, but she’s like another half of him stuck in the body of a leggy keyboardists with impeccable eyeliner skills and a dirty mouth.

Of course, he hadn’t exactly planned on falling for her irritable older brother, but what can you do.

Ian knew this about Mandy for sure when they’d known each other for two weeks. They’d hung out every day of those two weeks and they decided, Saturday morning, to go to the beach. It wasn’t completely warm enough for swimming yet but they wore their swimsuits anyway, Mandy announcing she needs some help with her long winter Eastern European pallor. Ian always burns.

They were snoozing in the sand, Mandy in a black bikini with big sunglasses on that coupled with her fringe, made her look like a rockstar, when she asked about his tattoo. Ian had shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. It is a stupid tattoo.

“Got it when I decided I wanted to join the military,” he had said, and if it had been anybody else in the entire universe he would have left it at that. But Mandy had stopped, looked at him over the rim of her sunglasses with a serious expression on her face that said ‘that isn’t the whole story,’ and waited. Ian loves Mandy, in a way he’s never loved anyone. It has nothing to do with romance, of course, and it’s closer to the way he loves Fiona but with none of the exasperation his familial relationships carry. He’d always thought Lip was his best friend, until Mandy.

“It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do,” he had said, and then, just like that with sand digging into his elbows and the beginnings of a sunburn on his shoulders, he ended up telling her everything. The whole story. How Lip made fun of him and how he didn’t quite get into West Point and how crappy boot camp was.  The way the morning sun in the rural countryside of Iraq looked. The names of the people in his unit. How he didn’t think he’d be homesick, but still was. How he remembers his own white knuckles pressing against the tabletop when the doctor, a middle-aged woman in a neat military uniform, looked at him with pity in her eyes and asked “Do you have a history of mental illness in your family?” How much it hurt to tell her yes. And everything that happened after he came home, it all spilled out of him and it felt a little like being sick all over the sand.

After he’d finished telling Mandy the messy details of the last five years, Ian had laid his head down on the sand. She’d slid her sunglasses up onto her head and was watching him, a frown creasing the space between her eyebrows. Ian had felt lightheaded and too warm. He’d thought for a moment Mandy wasn’t going to say anything at all, until she had cleared her throat and licked her lips.

“I almost murdered my dad,” she had said, in a weirdly matter-of-fact voice probably similar to the one Ian had used to spew his life story at her. “Almost four years ago. Could have. Just didn’t pull the trigger. Should have, probably. Terry’s an asshole.”

“Why?”

Mandy had shrugged. “Beating the shit out of Mickey. Not just knocking him around-- he did that all the time. Beating him up to do some real damage. So I pulled a gun. That’s when we ran. Haven’t seen Terry since. I’ve seen my other brothers once or twice, but that’s it. Mickey worked three jobs for a year so I wouldn’t have to drop out of high school, and when I did we formed the band. He acts like he doesn’t care about anyone, but that’s all it is. An act.”

“Why--” Ian had started to say.

“It’s Mickey’s business,” Mandy had said somewhat apologetically. “If he wants to tell you, he will.” She’d watched Ian for another minute, then smiled and gotten up, brushing sand from her legs. “C’mon. Buy me an ice cream?”

“Sure,” Ian had said. And that was that. It had been like those rituals you go through as a kid to prove your friendship. Swapping friendship necklaces. Spitting in each other’s palms. Getting matching tattoos. They’d swapped secrets at the beach, and sealed the deal over melting chocolate ice cream.

Almost a month later, Ian found himself thinking of that afternoon and what Mandy had said, and feeling sure that Mickey Milkovich’s act went a bit deeper than Mandy made it sound.

* * *

 

Mickey avoids Ian for a week, which isn’t anywhere as easy as he thinks it’s going to be. He spends that Friday night during their gig pointedly staring in the other direction from the bar where Ian is working, and he leaves as soon as they’re done playing, feeling pretty pleased with himself for so neatly and completely avoiding eye contact. Then, of course, he’s walking over to Svetlana’s the next day and is walking up a mostly deserted road when Ian turns a corner at the other end of it. He’s shirtless, jogging, in the shortest pair of shorts Mickey has ever witnessed. Mickey does the first thing he can think of and vaults over a chainlink fence into somebody’s tiny backyard, and he crouches behind a bush until Ian jogs past. It’s only when he’s struggling to get back over the fence that he realizes he could have just crossed the street.

Svetlana answers the door in her pink floral robe, a cigarette in her mouth. “What’s eating you?” she asks when Mickey stomps in. “You look like you have indigestion.”

“Hilarious,” Mickey says, throwing himself onto her couch.

“You want to go out tonight? Go dance? Find cute boy? Good band playing at the bar I think--”

“No, no way,” Mickey cuts her off. “We can go out, whatever, but not there. I’m over it, it’s no fun anymore.”

“Nothing is ever fun for you,” Svetlana sighs. “You have something up your ass, Milkovich, and it’s not a dick. That might make you look a little happier, no?”

“Will you give it a rest?” Mickey snaps. “Get dressed. Let’s go get a hot dog.”

“You’re paying,” Svetlana says, wandering off into her bedroom, glancing over her shoulder at him and smiling.

“Don’t try to pull that bedroom eyes bullshit on me,” Mickey says. “I don’t wanna sleep with you, it ain’t gonna work.”

He buys her lunch anyway. They go to a different bar that night and Mickey gets blackout drunk and doesn’t go home with anybody.

* * *

 

Mickey’s plan to just avoid Ian Gallagher for the rest of his life or until one of them dies falls apart, as his plans tend to, because of Mandy. He’s coming home late from work on Wednesday afternoon, already pissed, tired and in need of a shower and a smoke and he finds Ian leaning against Mandy’s bedroom doorframe, taking up some of the space between her room and Mickey’s own. He’s wearing dark jeans and a red plaid button up and his hair is slicked back and he looks good. Mickey is in his work clothes, sweaty and tired and already angry.

Mickey gets a beer out of the fridge, resists the urge to punch a hole in the lid and throw it at a wall. There’s a part of him, a surly scared dirty teenage part, that wants to kick and bite and shove its way through every problem and every person he encounters. It’s how he used to go through life-- he didn’t have many other options. It’s how his brothers do, and his dad. The last few years he’s been doing okay just by writing things down and singing about them.

Mickey sighs, opens the beer can, drains it, crumples it up and tosses it in the trash. He crosses the room and makes to go into his bedroom but Mandy’s voice stops him.

“Oh, there you are,” she says. One glance into her bedroom explains why Ian is standing in the doorway rather than inside it with her. Her room is strewn with clothes and she’s standing in the middle like a dark-haired exasperated whirlwind in a red silk bra. “Come here a sec.”

“If I go in there I don’t think I’m ever coming out again,” Mickey says. Ian snorts. He isn’t looking Mickey in the eye and Mickey can tell he’s doing it on purpose; his arms are crossed over his chest and his right leg over his left and his right foot is jiggling up and down against the doorframe and he gives off the impression of a tightly wound wire ready to snap.

“I don’t know why I’m asking you anyway, you wear three different outfits.” Mandy sighs and directs her gaze to Ian, who shrugs.

“You’re lucky I have sisters,” he says. “Being gay does not mean I’m born with some kind of innate fashion sense, Mands.” Mandy sighs and kicks through a pile of shirts on her bed.

“What are you even doing here?” Mickey says irritably. “You do have your own fucking apartment to hang out in, you know.”

“Really? I’d forgotten,” Ian rolls his eyes, still not looking at Mickey.

“Where are you going?” Mickey asks Mandy. “Out? It’s a Wednesday.”

“On a date,” Mandy says. She plucks a few shirts out of the pile, holds one up to her chest and frowns at her own reflection in her mirror. Mickey should just continue on into his bedroom, shut the door, take a shower and wait for them to leave. Ian’s foot jiggles more insistently against the doorframe, the rubber of his sneaker sole squeaking a little as it rubs on the wood. Leaving them to it would be the smarter thing to do. It really would be.

“With who?” Mickey asks.

“None of your business!” Mandy says. “What about this one?”

“Not if you’re wearing jeans, I don’t think,” Ian says. “You’re going to a movie, right? I don’t think you want to overdress for a rom com.”

“Oh, good point,” Mandy tosses the shirt down in disgust. “What about this one? With jeans and boots. Sexy enough?” Ian nods.

“You know who she’s going out with?” Mickey demands.

“Yeah,” Ian glances over at him, his mouth tightening.

“Why does he know but I don’t?” Mickey says. Mandy shrugs. “You actually found someone to go see a fucking romantic comedy with you? You don’t even like romantic comedies.”

“It’s none of your fucking business who I date,” Mandy shrugs on her chosen shirt, a lowcut black one, and runs her fingers through her hair to set it back in place. “What am I on-- third date? Do I look fuckable enough for a third date?”

“Is that what you do on the third date?” Ian asks. “No third date I’ve ever been on.”

“Well,” Mandy glances up from pulling a pair of jeans out of a drawer. “Fuckable as in ‘leave the movie early to go home and do it.’ That’s third date material, I think.”

“If you’ve made out on the first date, sure.”

“Not like that ever stopped you before,” Mickey says to Mandy, who flips him the bird.

“It’s different,” she says. “And to address your previous point, I don’t hate romantic comedies. Not all of them. They can be kinda sweet if you can suspend your disbelief for an hour.”

“Romance is for teenager and bored housewives,” Mickey says.

“Or optimists,” Ian says. “Would be nice if they made movies like that without straight people in them, though.” Mandy laughs.

“Yeah, your favorite movie’s probably that Brokeback Mountain shit, right?” Mickey says.

Ian shakes his head and makes a face like he wants to laugh but doesn’t want to give Mickey the satisfaction. “Nah. Too sad.”

“Shit’s a waste of time,” Mickey says. “Either it builds you up to some big Hollywood moment or makes you feel like you’re gonna die alone. Why watch that when you can watch--”

“Star Wars,” Ian says. He manages to make this sound derisive. “Yeah, you told me.”

“Not a rom com,” Mickey says smugly.

“I’ve always liked Star Trek better,” Ian says.

“Did you get dropped on your head a lot when you were a kid?” Mickey asks incredulously. “Star Trek? Really?”

‘Absolutely.”

“It’s fucking boring.”

“It’s optimistic,” Ian says. “It’s about people exploring the universe and solving problems with cooperation, not killing stuff and blowing up battle stations.”

“Naive,” Mickey says.

“I think space exploration’s romantic,” Mandy says, checking her reflection again in the mirror.

“That’s sorta the whole point,” Ian nods. “Maybe it is a little naive but it’s better than being closed off and violent all the time.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Mickey snaps. “All flowers and peace treaties til somebody tries to shoot you, huh? Then suddenly you’re unarmed at a shootout and up shit creek without a paddle.”

“You’re real cynical there, Mick,” Mandy scoots past him out of the bedroom, patting him on the shoulder. Mickey gets a whiff of her perfume as she goes. It isn’t ‘fuck me’ perfume. It’s flowery and soft and different from what she usually wears.

“Cause I don’t have my head up my ass and I know we can’t go around kissing whoever catches our eye and expecting it to all work out through the magical power of love and good will? You still carry a shiv in your purse, you know. Don’t see you putting your faith in humanity as a whole. Good luck and have fun.”

“God you’re grouchy,” Mandy says. “You need to get laid or something. Do you want to catch the bus with me Ian?”

“I’ll walk home,” Ian says. “I’m a bit on edge. Could use the exercise.” He pauses and uncrosses his arms and looks Mickey properly in the eye for the first time since Mickey came in. “Maybe you shouldn’t knock it before you try it,” he says, and there’s something defiant on his face that pushes Mickey over the edge from just being annoyed to actually being angry.

“I make a point of not acting like a child,” he says as calmly as he can. “Or did they not teach you that in boot camp?”

“You wouldn’t last a minute in boot camp,” Ian says. He laughs, but he doesn’t really look like he’s amused at anything.

“Didn’t exactly get wined and dined in the Middle East, did you?” Mickey can’t resist saying.

“More so than by you.” Ian smiles at him with his teeth gritted together, his voice low enough that Mandy can’t hear. Mickey wants to hit him. Mickey wants to kiss him so hard it hurts.

“And that worked out great for you, didn’t it?” Mickey grits out.

“Alright, assholes, I’m leaving,” Mandy opens the front door. “Please don’t kill each other while I’m out. If I come home and get blamed for your bodies in our living room I’m gonna be very unhappy.”

“You look great,” Ian glances right over Mickey’s shoulder. “Have fun!”

“Bye!” Mandy calls.The door slams. Ian makes to push past Mickey, bumping into him hard with his shoulder, and Mickey can’t stand inaction for a second longer. He grabs at Ian, gets one hand around his bicep and the other up against his chest, and shoves him back up against the wall. Ian grunts, his arm coming up to shove Mickey away, and Mickey pins it up against the wall with his elbow.

“What the fuck was that shit?” He hisses. “Huh? You think you’re funny, bringing that up in front of my sister?”

“What, Star Trek?” Ian asks. “Hate to break it to you but I’m pretty sure Mandy knows what Star Trek is--”

“Not fucking Star Trek!” Mickey snaps. “You know what the fuck I mean.”

“Pretty sure you brought it up, Mickey, not me.” His tone is light but the set of Ian’s eyebrows indicate he isn’t joking.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey digs his elbow harder into Ian’s arm when Ian tries to wrest it free again, pinning it up against the wall. Ian’s hipbone is digging into Mickey’s stomach and his breath, fast and uneven, gusts across Mickey’s face and Mickey could count the freckles on his nose. The blood is pounding in Mickey’s head behind his ears, a dull roaring that seems to throw everything else but Ian’s face out of focus.

“Make me.” Ian’s mouth curls up into a sneer and suddenly he twists his upper body so his shoulder collides with the side of Mickey’s head, shoving him off to the side. His arm comes up and Mickey thinks for a second Ian is going to hit him in the face until Ian grabs at the hair on the back of Mickey’s head, and then Mickey thinks Ian is going to kiss him again. He doesn’t, just turns the rest of the way so he’s got Mickey pinned up against the wall. Mickey tries to shove him back and can’t; Ian has at least half a foot on him and while Mickey is strong Ian is all muscle, lean and lanky but strong enough that Mickey can’t budge him.

He shoves at Ian with his whole body. Ian shoves back and Mickey tries to get his knee up to get him between the legs, but Ian leans forward so Mickey’s leg is trapped between his.

“You shouldn’t have pushed me,” Ian hisses. His voice is low and mean and it goes right to Mickey’s cock when it absolutely shouldn’t. His jaw juts forward and Mickey can see the pulse in his throat and Mickey is suddenly rock hard with no warning like he’s a teenager, like he’s sixteen all over again.

“You can’t take it? Military was a waste of time, tough guy,” Mickey snarls. Ian’s hand comes up and Mickey is really sure he’s going to hit him so he grabs his wrist and twists it behind Ian’s back so Ian can’t break free without letting go of Mickey’s hair; it’s a grip Mickey perfected years ago against much bigger cousins and brothers and Ian tries to throw him off without letting him go and can’t. He slams his hips up against Mickey’s hips, breathing hard, and Mickey doesn’t know if he’s angry or horny or some combination of both those things but he shoves back, grinding his hips into Ian’s. Ian gasps; Mickey can tell he’s hard through his jeans.

Ian draws back a little, face flushed, his mouth open and his eyes huge and green. He stares for a long second, just long enough for Mickey to start losing his nerve. Mickey lets go of the arm behind Ian’s back, hooks his finger through the belt loop on his jeans and grinds into him again.

“You wanna get on me? Or are you gonna stand there and stare?”

“You’re an asshole,” Ian says in a half-gasp, but he’s already pulling his shirt up over his head as Mickey yanks down the zipper on his pants.

Mickey doesn’t like being vocal when he fucks-- a habit born out of years of getting off in closets and under dugouts while trying to attract as little attention as possible. But he can’t help but groan when Ian slides his hand down his boxers to fist his cock. He’s almost stupidly hard, and his knees buckle a little against his will as Ian strokes him. Ian’s eyes are, if possible, even huger than they were before. His face is caught in an almost fierce concentration that’s a little endearing as it is ridiculous, and when he leans forward like he’s going to kiss Mickey again Mickey shoves him back and tugs his zipper down. He’s as hard as Mickey is.

“Fuck,” he says, his voice somehow deeper than usual. “Fuck-- fuck--”

“Shit’s in the bedroom, bedside table--” Mickey gasps and he pushes Ian backwards through his open bedroom door. Ian nearly trips over the tangle of pants and boxers around his feet but makes it to the bedside table to grab lube and a condom. Mickey yanks his pants the rest of the way down as Ian grabs him by the hips and spins him so his hands are flat against his bedroom wall. One of Ian’s hands lands on his shoulder, the other flips the bottle open.

“C’mon Gallagher, fuck,” Mickey leans his hips back against Ian’s thigh and his hand. Ian lets out a breathy laugh.

“Wouldn’t have guessed you’d be a pushy bottom,” Ian says, even as he presses a slicked-up finger inside him.

“Do you ever shut up--” Mickey’s words are cut off in his gasp. “Jesus--” Ian’s hand slides from Mickey’s shoulders to his hips, his fingers digging in as he slides another finger in. “Come on, Gallagher!” Mickey barks. Ian laughs a little again, there’s the rustle of the condom packet and then both his hands are on Mickey’s hips, steady and strong. Ian pushes into him, gives Mickey a second to re-angle his hips, then starts fucking him.

It is a good fuck, a really really good fuck. Ian gives it hard and steady, his hands on Mickey’s hips, and Mickey pushes back, arching back into him. “Fuck,” Ian says over and over again, “fuck, fuck--” he grabs at Mickey’s shoulder to pull himself even closer, fucks him even harder, and Mickey bends a little more at the waist so the angle is perfect. He bites his own lip trying to stay quiet, so hard it bleeds. It doesn’t really do any good.

Ian comes with a noise that’s a series of curses blending into a shout, and Mickey does a second later. His hand on the wall slips and he slides forward unexpectedly, banging his elbow on the doorframe and narrowly avoiding taking out his own nose.

“Jesus--” he gasps, collapsing against the doorframe, and Ian rolls away so his back is up against the wall, breathing hard. “Well,” Mickey says after a minute when his own breath is back. He glances over at Ian, who is flushed and watching him warily. “This how you always treat people you’re pissed at? I’m gonna piss you off more often, then.”

“Not everyone.” Ian straightens up from the wall, drags his fingers through his hair, which is sticking up everywhere. “Fuck,” he says and laughs his funny-half laugh, a sound he seems to make when he’s not sure if something is actually funny or not. He takes a tentative step forward, and Mickey takes one back, holding up a hand.

“What? You wanna fucking cuddle?” he says. “You’re good at giving it, Gallagher, but you still don’t have half a brain.”

“And you’re still an asshole,” Ian says, his mouth twisting around. He turns around, yanks up his jeans.

Not what Mickey had expected him to say. He grits his teeth. “Whatever,” he says as nonchalantly as he possibly can. “See you when I see you.” He steps past Ian and into the bathroom, shuts the door, turns on the shower. A few minutes later his front door opens, and slams shut. It’s only once Mickey is sure Ian is gone that he lets himself collapse sideways onto the built-in bench in his shower.

“Well,” he says out loud, because he feels like he has to say something but doesn’t know what it should be. “Fucking hell.”

* * *

 

Two days later, he and Mandy are playing their customary set at the Empty Bottle. Mandy insists that Mickey do a Postal Service cover, an indication that her date or whatever it had gone well, and the room is applauding it when Ian appears at his elbow with two beers. He meets Mickey’s eyes and doesn’t say anything, just passes him the bottle and gives Mandy a high five as he hops off the stage. Mickey is considering thinking of something clever to quip at him when Ian catches his elbow, jangling his guitar strings a little.

“If I have to tune this again I’m gonna fuck you up,” Mickey says.

“I left something for you in your guitar case,” Ian says.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Mickey asks, but Ian is already walking away.

When they finish up and Mickey goes to put his guitar away, he finds a DVD sitting in the front pocket of his guitar case. It’s the first season of Star Trek, the one with with William Shatner. There’s a note taped to the front that says ‘don’t knock it til you’ve tried it’ in Ian’s blocky hand. Mickey stares at it for a long moment, takes out his phone and types out FUCK OFF FIRECROTCH then hits send. Then he starts laughing.

He doesn’t know if this means he’s forgiven, exactly, or that he’s forgiven Ian either, or that it’s a sign that they’re friends again or that Ian wants to fuck again or if it really means anything. He glances over towards the bar as he’s leaving where Ian is pretending to look interested in something a young man in an ugly tanktop is saying to him; he makes a face behind his hand, an exasperated eye-roll where the guy won’t see, and Mickey makes a fist and mouths ‘punch him.’ Ian grins, and Mickey walks out of the bar feeling weird, and not knowing why.


	12. Part Three: ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You look like you need one,” he says to Mickey, who lifts up his glass to indicate its emptiness. “You didn’t have to come along,” Ian says again. He has to lean up close for Mickey to hear him. His five inches on Mickey means that he has to bend down a little to talk into Mickey’s ear, his shoulder bumping up against Mickey’s neck.
> 
> “Someone’s gotta make sure you and Mandy don’t get into too much trouble,” Mickey says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i ended up splitting the content of this chapter in half for length and continuity, so part three will have six chapters instead of five like the other parts. i'll hopefully get it done by the end of the week (FINGERS CROSSED.... AND COMMENTS ARE ENCOURAGING...)  
> thank you all so much for reading and for your kind words and enthusiasm, it means so much to me!! x
> 
> chapter probably rated r, contains some alcohol (but what chapter hasn't so far tbh)

“You said you’d read the shit I wrote this week tonight, not go out!”

“I’ll edit your songs tomorrow. It’s not like you wrote them in any great hurry, Mick. All I saw you do this week was sit on your ass and watch Star Trek.”

“Star Trek sucks.” It’s Thursday night and Mickey and Mandy are arguing, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary. They don’t have a gig, which is unusual for a Thursday, and Mickey had woken up from a nap to find Mandy deliberating over which pair of nearly identical black shoes to wear.

“What, William Shatner not your type?” Mandy is bent over her bathroom mirror, but she turns and raises her eyebrows at him. Mickey is sitting on her bed with a cigarette and a beer, and he snorts.

“No fucking way,” he says. “Way too much of a beefcake.”

“You’re not into men in uniform?”

Mickey thinks inadvertently about what Ian Gallagher must look like in military dress, and chokes on his beer. Mandy doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does she doesn’t say anything. She puts the lid on her eyeliner and turns around, leaning against the sink.

“You wanna come out with us?” She asks. “We’re meeting up with some of Ian’s friends from college, they apparently know a new bar that’s awesome.”

“Eh, I don’t know,” Mickey says. Mandy pouts at him.

“It’ll be fun! You can have fun. You won’t die.”

“You sound like Svetlana,” Mickey grumbles.

“I’ll get you a few rounds.”

“Maybe,” Mickey says.

“I did read some of the stuff you wrote, you know. What you left sitting out. It was good-- needs a good keyboard line, probably. Something kinda melancholy?”

“You didn’t say anything,” Mickey says.

“Forgot. It was just this morning anyway. Who are you pining for?”

“What?” Mickey stares at her.

“What you wrote. It’s really good, but it’s pine-y.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Are you moping after someone or not?”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey rubs at his temples. “No!”

“Uh-huh.” Mandy’s mouth twists, and then there’s a knock at the front door so she strides past him to go answer it. It’s Ian, of course, because he seems to be the only person who comes to their apartment anymore. Mickey hasn’t seen him since the Friday before, not because Mickey’s been trying to avoid him necessarily but because Mickey spent most of the last few days hanging out inside writing and rewriting two songs and watching television.

“You look good!” Mandy is saying from the kitchen. “What the occasion, huh?”

“Just felt like it,” Ian’s voice says. “And so do you, by the way.”

“Yeah, but I look regular good. You look like you want to score.” Ian makes a noncommittal noise.  

Mickey’s beer is empty, which is as good an excuse as any to go into the kitchen. He chucks the can in the trash and opens the fridge for another before glancing in Ian’s direction. He’s wearing black jeans and a black tanktop that make his arms and face look pale and his hair very red. He’s also wearing something around his eyes, eyeliner or something, dark and artfully smudged. It should look ridiculous. It looks good. Ian nods in greeting over Mandy’s head, because she’s peering up into his face.

“You’re better at that than I am,” she says. “Someone teach you? Your sister?”

“People I worked with at the club,” Ian says. This must mean something to Mandy, because she nods.

“It’s a good look,” she says, then turns around. “If you’re coming along you need to change your shirt,” she points at Mickey.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says. But he does. He also stops to duck his head under the faucet and comb his hair back. And ten minutes later he finds himself in a cab, squashed between Ian and Mandy, who are both singing Britney Spears songs (Ian is very off-key), wondering why he makes the decisions that he does.

The bar is a small and unfortunately trendy place downtown with a line already forming outside when their cab pulls up. The music inside is bass-heavy, with indistinct lyrics, and Mickey knows as soon as Mandy drags him out of the cab that he’s going to need to be really really drunk to deal with this.

Ian’s friends meet them inside the bar; three men and a woman, all of whom look like academics who have dressed up for the night to look less academic. They hug Ian and Mandy, who sees to know them, and Ian goes around the circle and rattles off a bunch of names. The only one whose name sticks is Brian, who has immaculately coiffed brown hair that still makes him a few inches shorter than Ian.

“We’ll go get drinks!” Mandy says, and Mickey catches her arm.

“Something strong,” he says, and she laughs. She and Ian weave off through the crowd towards the bar, hand in hand, abandoning Mickey with them.

“So,” a tall man with glasses and a polo shirt (who wears a polo shirt to a club? Mickey wonders) asks. “What do you do, Mickey?”

Mickey bites back the urge to say something untrue, describe his brothers’ lines of work maybe. ‘I run drugs,’ or ‘I’m a pimp.’ “I’m in a band,” he says.

“Let me guess,” glasses says. “Death metal?”

“Folk rock.” Mickey crosses his arms.

“Don’t be a dick,” Brian says to his friend, who shrugs. “Sorry, Mickey,” he smiles a my-parents-were-rich-enough-to-afford-orthodontia smile in Mickey’s direction. “He thinks he’s funny, and he’s not. Ian sent me some of your music, a few weeks ago. I really like it!”

“Thanks,” Mickey says warily. Ian and Mandy are still waiting over at the bar, so he sighs. “So, uh, how do you know Gallagher?”

“I was his TA last semester,” Brian says.

“That a sex thing?” Mickey snorts. Brian is so startled that he laughs.

“No, I mean I helped teach one of his classes. I’m a grad student at the college.”

“Yeah, I know what a TA is,” Mickey says, and Brian laughs again, some kind of reflex to deflect awkwardness or something.

“I can’t tell when you’re joking,” he says. “You’re funny!” Mickey rolls his eyes, but nobody seems to notice and Brian keeps talking. “I got stuck TAing a speechwriting class last semester, the one everyone dreads, it’s horrible. And usually the class is fifty spoiled teenagers who show up half asleep if they show up at all, but last semester it was forty nine spoiled teenagers, and Ian.”

“Speechwriting, huh,” Mickey says.

“Usually I have to grade fifty speeches on why we should save the whales, or recycle, but Ian did his first project on how our healthcare system impacts veterans. Ian’s great.”

Mandy chooses that moment to appear, like a guardian angel with whiskey. Mickey gulps half his drink and chokes on it, and Ian pounds him on the back

“You didn’t have to come,” Ian says into Mickey’s ear. “I know this isn’t really your scene.”

Mickey glances up at him and rubs at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Your friends are, uh--”

“Stereotypical middle-class gay people, I know,” Ian says flatly. Mickey raises his eyebrows. “They’re a lot cooler than they look, most of the time anyway.”

“Figure you’d hang out with a bunch of hipsters.”

“They’re better than the fuckers I actually had class with,” Ian says. “I thought everything Lip told me about college was an exaggeration. It wasn’t. But Brian’s really smart.”

“Why don’t you fuck him against his bedroom wall then, huh?” Mickey says. As soon as he says it he wishes he could take it back. Ian stares at him for a second, eyes wide, then his mouth curls up on one side.

“He’s not mouthy,” he says. “It wouldn’t be any fun.”

He turns and lets Mandy drag him off into the crowd to dance, and Mickey finishes his drink and wonders what the hell that was supposed to mean. That he needs another drink. He wanders off to find the bar.

Ian comes back without Mandy maybe ten minutes later, a little sweaty and pushing his hair out of his face. He shoves a few people out of the way to stand next to Mickey at the bar, and leans over Mickey’s shoulder to order three shots from the bartender.

“You look like you need one,” he says to Mickey, who lifts up his glass to indicate its emptiness. “You didn’t have to come along,” Ian says again. He has to lean up close for Mickey to hear him. His five inches on Mickey means that he has to bend down a little to talk into Mickey’s ear, his shoulder bumping up against Mickey’s neck.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you and Mandy don’t get into too much trouble,” Mickey says. Mandy is currently dancing with Ian’s friends, with a huge grin on her face, but Mickey is still only half joking. Ian laughs.

“We do a pretty good job taking care of ourselves,” he says, turning to accept the shots from the bartender behind him. He turns back around a little unsteadily, and hands Mickey one of the shot glasses. “I can do mean and intimidating when I want to.”

“I know mean and intimidating,” Mickey says. “I live with mean and intimidating. And you are not mean and intimidating.” He tips the shot back.

“Well, that’s my point,” Ian downs one of the two shots in his hands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice is slurring a little. “A few weeks ago, she hit a guy trying to pick me up in the stomach with her baton.” He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, swaying a little. Mickey catches his elbow, mostly to protect the alcohol from spilling out of his hands and down his front. Ian puts one hand on Mickey’s shoulder to steady himself, still laughing. His thumb ends up resting on Mickey’s bare skin, just above his collarbone. Mickey’s face feels suddenly very warm, and two weeks ago he would have repeatedly told himself it’s because of the alcohol in his system. He knows it’s not. It’s because this ridiculous eyeliner-wearing sloppily drunk fucker with his thumb accidentally touching Mickey’s collarbone.

“You can thank me for that,” he says. “I gave it to her. And I’ve been on the receiving end of it quite a few time, it fucking hurts.”

“Why?” Ian says. “For hitting on me?” Mickey glares up at him, and Ian’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he starts laughing. Mickey snatches the other shot out of his hand defiantly and knocks it back.

The whiskey burns pleasantly as it goes down and Mickey’s head feels the right amount of fuzzy and so does the room. He’d probably rather die than call the background noise ‘music’ but he finds he doesn’t hate it as much as he did one shot before. Ian, his hand still on Mickey’s shoulder, is swaying back and forth to the beat.

“How can you dance to shit like this?” Mickey asks. His own words come out a little stretched, a little jumbled.

“Same way you dance to anything,” Ian says. He smiles crookedly, and his eyes look glossy and bright. “Move your body around to music. See?” He moves his hips back and forth in a way that is almost definitely suggestive.

“No, I mean,” Mickey drags his eyes back from Ian’s hips to his face, which is a bit of a struggle. His stupid tanktop is riding up to show a line of pale skin above his jeans. Mickey has the sudden and unexpectedly urgent desire to put his hands on Ian’s waist and slide his fingers across the skin there. “How do you dance to this synthesized shit and look like you’re enjoying yourself?”

“I can dance to anything,” Ian says, still moving back and forth. His knee bumps up against Mickey’s shin and when he moves it Mickey almost subconscious takes a step forward so their legs are touching again. Ian leans into him, smiles slowly and bites the corner of his lip.

“Says your drunk ass,” Mickey slurs. The words feel like they’re tangling up over each other coming out, like all his concentration is being channeled into being aware of Ian’s long leg leaning up against his and how his hips are still rocking back and forth.

“Are you complaining?” Ian says, his voice teasing. His eyes have been fixed, albeit unsteadily, on Mickey’s face, but his gaze drops to where his leg meets Mickey’s leg and his hip meets Mickey’s hip. His eyes travel back up Mickey’s body to his face again, and there’s a question in them, or maybe an invitation and Mickey knows that he’s going to break one of his rules.

The decision isn’t even a decision, it’s just a moment of knowing that Ian wants this and that he does too and that he isn’t going to just walk away from him, not like this, not with his shirt riding up and his hip pressed tight against Mickey’s hip and his breath, whiskey-laced and fast and shallow, gusting down Mickey’s neck. Mickey glances around them; Mandy is across the room with Ian’s friends and none of them are even looking in their direction. Nobody is.

“C’mon,” he says, and he puts his hands on Ian’s hips and turns him around and shoves him away from the bar and towards the back hallway and the bathrooms.

“Won’t they notice we’re gone?” Ian says, stumbling over his feet and his words. Mickey puts his hand on his lower back, figuring of the two of them he’s the steadier. Not by much. The alcohol in his system has kicked in with his elevated heart rate, and his head is swimming

“Mandy’s too busy being enamored with your fancy college friends,” Mickey growls. There are people in the men’s bathroom; the door opens and shuts as he steers Ian past it but Mickey sees what he’s looking for. A door, around the corner. When he’s sure nobody is looking he opens it, pushes Ian inside and closes the door behind them.

There’s a moment of silence. They’re in almost-darkness except for the light coming in under the door, but Mickey can hear Ian looking around.

“A closet?” He says. “You want to do this in a closet? Really?”

“Shut up,” Mickey shoves him up against the door and does slide his hand up Ian’s shirt and over the defined edge of his hipbone. Ian rocks his hips against Mickey and his breath is hot on Mickey’s neck. Their faces are inches apart in the dark; Mickey can feel Ian’s lips move and he swears silently and under his breath. Mickey fumbles with the button on Ian’s jeans. Ian’s cock is hard through his boxers.

“I’m just-- fuck-- pointing out the irony here--” Mickey cuts Ian off by fisting his cock so he gasps, then he drops to his knees and slides Ian’s pants the rest of the way down.

Mickey is too drunk for any kind of subtlety or precision and he’s not about to worry if Ian cares either; he licks the underside of Ian’s cock and then takes it into his mouth, his fingers holding Ian against the door, digging hard into his hips.  

“Fuck--” Ian gasps, the sound louder than it should be in the dark. Mickey wants to tell him to shut up and keep his voice down but he doesn’t because he doesn’t want to stop. His head is buzzing so he can barely think and he just wants Ian to keep making the sound he’s making, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. Nothing else exists at this second, just the two of them in the dark, Ian’s skin on Mickey’s tongue and his knee pressing into Mickey’s shoulder and his fingers curling around the back of Mickey’s head.

Ian’s fingers dig into Mickey’s hair, his fingernails on his scalp and that feels fucking good. He pulls back a little, traces the underside of Ian’s cock slowly with his tongue. Ian’s whole body stiffens and he thumps his head on the door when he leans it back. He swears again, louder.

“Shut up, Gallagher,” Mickey whispers, curling his tongue around the tip of Ian’s cock.

“Fuck off--” Ian growls. “Mickey, fuck, come on--” His fingers tighten in Mickey’s hair and Mickey lets them. He starts to blow him again, faster, digging his fingers into Ian’s hips, letting one hand curl around his lower back to hold him still. Ian grinds into his mouth, desperately, his breathing ragged. He whispers Mickey’s name over and over, which Mickey should not like but does, and when he comes he hits his head on the door again and lets go of Mickey’s hair to stuff his own hand in his mouth. His knees buckle and his whole body arches and Mickey comes in his pants.

Mickey stands up slowly, dimly aware that his knees are aching and definitely dusty and the closet smells like chemical-based cleaning supplies and he’s knocked over a broom with his feet. Ian is leaning up against the door, breathing hard, but he stands unsteadily when Mickey puts his hands on the doorknob.

“You don’t want--,” he starts to say, but Mickey cuts him off.

“Don’t wanna give the janitor a shock,” he says.

“Wait--” Ian says, his words still colliding with each other. “This was-- what? What was it?”

“Blowjob in a closet, smartass,” Mickey snaps. “Mandy’s gonna wonder where you went to.” He opens the door and steps into the hallway, thankfully empty, and doesn’t check to see if Ian follows him. He texts Mandy as he’s waiting for a cab outside to let her know she’s leaving, and when he gets home he jerks off in the shower. He has to stop himself from saying Ian’s name when he comes.

* * *

 

Fiona and Liam come across town to have breakfast with Ian on Sunday morning, because they both have the day off and Liam shares Ian’s enthusiasm for breakfast food of all kinds. Ian takes them to the diner down the street from his apartment. They sit on the little patio in front of the restaurant and Liam, as seven-year-olds will, demands a chocolate chip pancake shaped like Mickey Mouse. It’s a nice morning, a little overcast with the promise of being pretty hot later.

“You look tired,” Fiona says when the waitress brings their food. “You feeling okay?”

Ian has all but giving up on explaining to his family members that feeling ‘okay’ only really means not feeling like he’s going to die because he’s stuck on the end of one extreme or another. Gallagher concern is blunt and practical but ultimately heartfelt and well-meaning, and it almost demands a similarly phrased response. How Ian feels is jittery. Twitchy, really, and sitting on the uncomfortable edge of a manic episode that he’s going to stave off as long as he can in the afternoon by going on a run and doing all the laundry in his apartment.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I worked all afternoon yesterday and Mandy and I stayed up late watching Lost. It doesn’t make any more sense when you’re stoned, by the way. She lied to me.”

“Color me surprised,” Fiona rolls her eyes, then grabs at Liam’s fork. “No-- stop-- eat it, don’t masticate it.”

Ian lets Fiona complain about her job, and eats bacon and eggs while she tells him about the office warfare two middle-aged women she works with are currently engaging in. She’s in the middle of this story when the door to the restaurant opens; Ian glances up, expecting it to be their waitress with a refill on his coffee. It isn’t their waitress. It’s Mickey, with a cigarette in his teeth and a tanktop and beat-up sneakers on. He stops when he sees them, his eyebrows going up.

There’s half a minute where Ian isn’t sure what Mickey is going to do, if he’s going to just brush past them and walk away from the restaurant or turn around to go back inside. They haven’t spoken since Thursday; the bar had been incredibly busy Friday leaving Ian no time to mess around during their gig. Even if it hadn’t been, he has no idea what he would have said. He doesn’t remember a whole lot after about midnight on Thursday, as alcohol has the tendency to go right to his head when he’s dancing, but what he does recall involves Mickey on his knees in an empty bathroom. That is, generally, the kind of thing you either get hung up on forever or blow off completely.

“Gallagher. How’s it hanging?” Mickey says around the unlit cigarette. He glances over Ian’s shoulder. “Gallaghers, plural, sorry. Hey.”

“Mickey, right?” Fiona says, smiling. “How’s it going?”

“Needed some serious breakfast to get through band practice today,” Mickey says. “Those are some souped-up pancakes there,” he directs this to Liam, who grins. “Me too, bud.”

“You got food shaped like Mickey Mouse?” Ian can’t resist asking, and Mickey’s eyebrows go up again in a movement that says ‘I’d tell you to fuck yourself if there wasn’t a child present.’

“So, uh,” Mickey reaches into his back pocket for his lighter and lights his cigarette, drags on it in a way that takes Ian abruptly back to his fuzzy half-memories of Thursday night. “You doing anything tonight?”

“Laundry,” Ian says, because it’s true and because he doesn’t know where this is going and because Fiona is in the seat next to him stuffing toast into her mouth. “Why?”

“Cause I have the feeling I’ll wanna murder Mandy after this afternoon,” Mickey says, sliding his lighter back into his pocket. “So can your laundry use a little company?”

There’s a little part of Ian that wants to say no, a sensible and marginally more responsible part that tries to fight against the sudden flood of smitten nervousness in Ian’s stomach and shout out that this is a very bad idea That you’ve already learned your lesson, fuckhead, and saying yes is going to just make everything more complicated and is that really what you need right now? But everything is already complicated and the damage has definitely already been done.

Mickey exhales cigarette smoke that curls up the size of his face and his eyebrows (which seem to do the talking for him at least half the time) raise in expectation. He looks down through his eyelashes at Ian, and Ian takes a deep breath.

“Yeah sure,” he says. “Why not?”

“Cool,” Mickey says, and his eyebrows drop back to where they were. “See ya.”

“Yeah,” Ian says faintly, and Mickey walks past their table and down the street. Ian watches him go, then drains his water glass. It takes a lot of self control for him not to just dump the glass of water down his pants. Across from him, Fiona clears her throat. She’s staring at him with something like confused delight on her face and her eyes dart from Ian’s face to the direction Mickey went.

“Hey, Liam,” she says. “Go wash your hands, they’re all sticky. The bathroom’s just inside the door-- can you find it?” Liam gives her a thumbs up and slides out of his seat. Fiona leans across the table, almost putting her elbow into the maple syrup. “Was that what I think it was?” She half-whispers.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow?” Ian says somewhat desperately.

“Are you sleeping with him?” Fiona asks, her face still caught somewhere between confusion and exuberance. Ian sighs.

“Kinda,” he say, and slurps his coffee. Fiona crosses her arms expectantly. “It’s complicated,” Ian tries.

“I know a thing or two about complicated,” Fiona says, and Ian caves.

“I didn’t think anything was gonna happen, and then it did, but not really. We hooked up, but then it was super weird and I thought he hated me-- he still might. It was weird angry sex. Just weird.” This is way more than Ian would tell Lip, and it strikes him that he appreciates finally being at an age where he can talk to his sister about stuff like this without her automatic need to parent kicking in. “That was a week ago, and I thought we’d both forget about it or something, until Thursday.”

“What happened Thursday?”

“He sucked me off in a bar bathroom,” Ian says as fast as he can. Fiona’s eyes pop open.

“Well!” She says. Then she frowns. “Do you wanna hook up with him again?”

“I guess?”

“Do you want to date him?”

Never mind. Ian is never telling Fiona anything ever again. “I’m gonna focus on the more immediate problem,” Ian says sharply.

“I’m pretty sure that was the equivalent of a booty call, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Fiona says.

Ian doesn’t know if this makes him feel better or worse.

* * *

 

He goes home and goes for a run and actually does his laundry, because he’s on edge and he doesn’t know if Mickey will actually show. At a quarter past seven he becomes sure Mickey was just fucking with him, so he opens a beer and turns up the music in his apartment and tries to accept the fact that he’s been stood up. If you can be stood up by someone you don’t have a real relationship or concrete plans with.

Ian is, of course, singing out loud to one of his favorite Mandy and the Misdemeanors songs when the doorbell rings. He listens to their music quite often, not just because he likes Mandy. He genuinely likes it. He’s singing loud enough that he doesn’t hear the bell ring until it’s rung twice, and then he scrambles out of the kitchen to get to the door and turn the volume down at the same time.

“You’re making me sound worse than I actually do,” Mickey says when Ian opens the door.

“There’s a reason you sing the songs and I make the drinks,” Ian says. Mickey closes the door and kicks his shoes off. He leans against the kitchen counter and looks up at Ian, his amusement clear on his face.

“Are you tone deaf? Or did you adopt a dying cat?” It is, Ian supposes, not the worst reaction to hearing your own voice being blasted around somebody else’s apartment.

“The only thing I can sing on key are army cadences, and that’s because you’re only required to chant,” Ian says.

“They actually make you do that? I thought that was just in movies and shit.” Mickey’s eyebrows go up.

“Nope, my drill instructor loved them.” Ian marches in place a little. “One mile- no sweat! Two miles- better yet! Goes on like that forever. Or wait, you’ll like this one.” Mickey’s eyebrows are vanishing under his hair. “If I die don’t bring me back, bury me with a case of Jack!”

“Alright tough guy, I get it, you’re still tone deaf.”

“Fuck you,” Ian says, and Mickey smirks up at him. “Want a beer?”

“What kind of question is that?”

Mickey wanders away from the kitchen as Ian opens the fridge and tosses him a can; he pauses to open it in front of the half-folded pile of clean clothes on the living room floor.

“So laundry wasn’t a euphemism,” he says. “You actually were folding clothes by yourself on Sunday night. That’s hot, Gallagher.”

“In what universe is laundry a euphemism for anything?” Ian says.

“Anything’s a euphemism if you say it in the right tone of voice,” Mickey glances over his shoulder at Ian and his eyes have heat in them. Ian doesn’t know if Mickey’s going to turn this banter into something else, or if he should, or if he should just see where it goes. He doesn’t really mind. There isn’t really any question why Mickey invited himself over, and the way Mickey is looking at Ian over his shoulder confirms that, but he likes just talking to Mickey. Even if it’s about something ridiculous.

“Oh! Okay,” Ian says, and adopts the most ridiculously pornographic tone he can muster. “Well since you’re here maybe we can, I don’t know, clear the leaves out of my rain gutters. How does that sound big guy?” He waggles his eyebrows, and Mickey turns around to stare at him incredulously.

“And after we do that, we can unload the dishwasher,” Ian takes a few steps to close the space between them. “And vaccum up the spiderwebs in the bathroom, if that’s your kind of thing--”

“Point fucking proven,” Mickey growls. He grabs at Ian’s belt loops with his fingers and pulls him another inch closer til their knees are touching. “Now are you gonna shut up and fuck me, or do you need to euphemise some more?”

Ian shuts up. 


	13. Part Three: iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They never talked about it in the daylight. It’s an old, old habit, hammered into them a long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for some homophobic language towards the beginning. as always i hope you like it, and let me know what you think!
> 
> iangalager.tumblr.com

Mickey wakes up on Thursday thinking about his father.

He does so because he wakes up directly out of a dream, the kind of violently hazy one he’s been having for years filled with impressions of memories rather than the real memories themselves: indistinct shouting, hands on the back of his shirt holding him so he can’t run, panic in the back of his throat. He wakes up gasping and tosses the blankets off him, momentarily so sure their weight on his shoulders is something else, positive someone else is in the bedroom with him.

The room is empty. Of course it is. Logically, Mickey knows he locked both their front door and the one to his bedroom before he went to sleep. They’re on the other side of the city, and nobody knows where they live. He hasn’t seen his father in four years. He says this to himself under his breath as he swings his legs off the bed and sits up, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hand. “You’re fine,” he says. “Mandy’s fine. You’re fine. Mandy’s fine.”

But fear defies logic, and Mickey can’t get back to sleep.

Sometimes, days will go by where Mickey doesn’t really think about Terry. Once or twice in the last few years when he was particularly busy and occupied with other stuff, he got through a week. But it never lasts long. Their whole lives, Terry Milkovich has been occasionally out of sight but never, ever far out of mind, and that’s still true. Mickey sometimes tries to imagine a time when it won’t be, and can’t.

Terry follows him. Not physically, of course. but in a worse way, because it means he’s harder to shake.

There are a thousand and one memories that cling to Mickey, because there were a thousand and one moments in his childhood that he wishes he didn’t have to remember. His brain cycles through them sometimes, conveniently dragging up almost-forgotten beatings or curses or glimpses of his mother crying in the bathroom when he least expects it. There’s one memory, though, that’s really stuck with him. Mickey isn’t sure why. It’s a pretty stupid one, nowhere near as bad as some of the shit Terry put them through, and the fact that it’s so solidified in his head really doesn’t make that much sense. It would be logical for, oh, the night they ran to be stuck there. It is sometimes, of course. But this little memory always comes to mind, and it comes to mind now as Mickey leans into his hands and tries to breathe.

He had been fourteen. Terry had just been released from one of his frequent stints in prison, and they’d thrown him a welcome-home party (lots of cheap beer, lots of cheap cocaine). Mickey had been walking through the house to go find his brothers out in the yard and had caught the tail-end of his father’s conversation with his uncle and three of their friends. It was just the tail end, but Mickey had known immediately what they were talking about.

“-- and then I pummeled his face in!” Terry had shouted, pounding a fist on the table to cheers and raised glasses.

“Fucking gays,” Mickey’s uncle had said. “Learned his lesson, right? You don’t cop a feel on a Milkovich if you like how your face is shaped.”

Terry had grinned, obviously taking pleasure in the fact that he’d beat up an anonymous inmate, taking pleasure in the positive reaction from his friends. “Wrong in the head,” he had said.

“That’s what happens when you act like that,” one of Terry’s friends had laughed. “That’s what you get, right Terry?” Terry had laughed, had crumpled his empty beer can with one fist and tossed it across the room towards the trashcan. Its trajectory took his gaze right over to Mickey, standing in the doorway.

“Fuckin’ right that’s what you get,” he’d said to more laughter. Mickey had stared at them, sitting in a circle around the kitchen table, and his throat had gotten tight. “Gonna get beat if you act like that,” Terry had said, looking Mickey in the eye. He hadn’t known, not yet, about the confusing half-formed fantasies that popped into Mickey’s head sometimes when he was trying to jack off. The insidious fear, always a little on his mind, that something was wrong with him, that he was fucked up in the head. Sick.

He hadn’t known. But it had felt like he did, and Mickey had felt wrong.

* * *

 

Mandy is out of the house for most of the day, which is okay with Mickey. He doesn’t want any company, even hers. He spends most of the day on the couch watching reruns of ‘Cake Boss’ and fiddling with a few chords on his guitar. The chords are ugly and he’s playing them loud enough to be heard over the sound of the television and they’re really out of tune. Their neighbors will probably complain. Again. Mickey doesn’t care; yelling at the yuppies downstairs would probably make him feel better. His skin feels too tight for the rest of his body, his fingers too clumsy and his brain won’t fucking shut up but the alternative, sitting in the quiet by himself, is much worse.

Mickey doesn’t like quiet. He’d never give himself enough credit to call himself a musician, but he’s in a band for a reason. He tries not to let stuff stick around in his head for too long, just funnels it all down his fingers and onto paper and lyrics. Sometimes it works.

Today, not so much.

The sun’s down outside when he gets up, realizing he hasn’t eaten in a few hours. He’s rooting around in the fridge looking for something appetizing when the front door slams open behind him. It slams open, and Mickey knows in his gut that someone is going to come through that door, someone (Terry) with a weighted tire iron (or a gun) and it’ll hit him right at the back of the head where his skull meets his neck. Bent over the refrigerator, he’s vulnerable, a perfect target, standing there practically asking to be shot because he isn’t paying attention, fuck, and won’t this be funny after everything that’s happened-- Mickey has to fight him off for Mandy, at least for Mandy--

Mickey lunges away from the fridge and across the counter, his fingers curling around the handle of the serrated bread knife someone left next to the sink the day before. His body moves without thinking: he turns, raises his arm--

And freezes, because it’s Mandy standing in the doorway, eyes huge with a can of mace raised in front of her like a shield.

They stare at each other, both breathing hard. Mickey can hear an enormously loud, rumbling sound that he thinks for a moment is thunder but he realizes is just the sound of his own heart inside his head. Mandy drops the mace suddenly like it’s burning her, her breathing ragged, scrubs at her eyes and smears her own eyeliner.

“Fuck--” she gasps. “Jesus Christ, I fucking-- I fucking thought you were--” She takes a few deep breaths.

The knife slides out of Mickey’s fingers and clatters on the off-white linoleum. He stares at it. His head feels like it’s swimming.

“Mands--” he says, and his own voice sounds very far away.

“You fucking scared me,” Mandy laughs. It’s a weird, shaky laugh, very fake. She closes the door and comes into the room, picking up the can of mace from the floor and sliding it back into her purse. She stops in front of him and bends down to pick up the knife, then pushes past him and drops it into the sink again. “What the fuck are you doing? Practicing your Freddy Kreuger act?”

She’s joking. She is, in her own way, simultaneously telling him it isn’t a big deal and that she understands. Mickey rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Yeah,” he says. “Pick me up a striped sweater next time you’re out, huh?”

“Don’t think you even need a mask!”

“Oh fuck off.”

Mickey wants to say ‘I’m sorry.’ Mickey wants to cry. But they don’t talk about this shit, not when they left home, not now, maybe not ever. Mickey spent the year of their tentative freedom waiting up at night to avoid sleep, his guitar in his lap, watching Mandy’s eyes twitch behind her closed lids, waiting for her to wake up gasping. They never talked about it in the daylight. It’s an old, old habit, hammered into them a long time ago.

Milkoviches don’t get soft about stuff. They just don’t. So Mickey looks at his sister and hopes she can see it in his eyes. She does, he can tell. But her face also just looks overwhelmingly sad.

Mickey needs a drink, and he can’t stay in the apartment and watch Mandy look at him the way she’s looking at him, so he puts his shoes on and goes to the bar.

Ordinarily Mickey wouldn’t choose to hang out there; it only feels like the kind of bar you just hang around in on weeknights before about nine and it’s mostly too crowded and too noisy to just sit and drink a beer by yourself. But Mickey goes there anyway, because he’s getting used to it and because it’s the kind of place his father would never, ever go and for some reason that makes him feel better. The bar’s about half-full and there’s a woman with an acoustic guitar onstage who isn’t half-bad.

Mickey spots Ian immediately, because of his distinctive hair and because he’s on the wrong side of the bar. He’s sitting by himself on a stool halfway down the bar, apparently doing nothing more than staring into a half-drunk beer. Mickey deliberates for a moment but then walks up to the bar, leaning his elbow on the wooden bar top so he’s turned to face Ian’s hunched-over shoulders.

“Yo,” he says. “Why the long face?”

Ian had been apparently so lost in thought he hadn’t heard Mickey approach, because he turns and his face is surprised.

“Oh, hey,” he says. He sounds a little like Mickey feels; tired but also on edge and generally just done with the day. “You guys aren’t playing tonight, are you? I didn’t sleep through Thursday or something?”

“Nah,” Mickey says. “I need a drink but don’t wanna sit at home. Mandy’s practicing the accordian. Ain’t exactly peaceful or melodious. You working?”

Ian shakes his head. “Didn’t want to be alone,” he says. “But I got here and don’t actually want this.” He slides the half-empty beer glass towards Mickey. “Take it, if you want it.”

“It’s not some light shit, is it?”

Ian snorts “Give me a little bit of credit, Mick.”

“Just making sure.” Mickey snatches Ian’s beer up and confirms that it is indeed not light. He tries to ignore dwelling on the fact that Ian has apparently started calling him ‘Mick.’ It’s a habit he’s probably picked up from Mandy, who’s the only one who really does. Has he done it before now? Mickey can’t remember if he has. He doesn’t mind. Mickey is somewhat surprised to realize he’s glad to see Ian even though he seems grumpier than usual. He hasn’t seen him since Monday afternoon, and then only in passing. Well, in the half hour space between when Mickey got off work and when Ian had to start his shift during which Ian had fucked him up against the arm of his couch.

“What’s eating you, huh?” Mickey asks. Ian shrugs and drops his chin into his hand.

“Shitty day,” he says. “My sister dragged me and Lip across town bright and early to help scare off some meth dealers who’ve been trying to use our pool as a bathtub, which made me late for my doctor’s appointment because they really wanted to use the pool as a bathtub.”

“Jesus,” Mickey says.

“Going to the doctor sucks enough as it is,” Ian sighs, “without having to explain that you’re late because your older brother almost got knifed by a drug addict with white boy dreads. Been in a bad mood since.”

Mickey drinks more beer. “Well,” he says, “you wanna go back to your place and, uh, get cheered up a bit?”

“You’re euphemizing again,” Ian smiles a little, and Mickey smirks. “And that one’s not even that clever.”

“Oh whatever,” Mickey says.

“You gonna believe if I say I’m not really in the mood?” Ian asks, his face apologetic.

“This coming from the guy who opted to, uh,” Mickey drops his voice a little, even though nobody is sitting particularly close to them, “blow me in the bathroom on his break Saturday last?”

“Fuck off,” Ian says, his face going a little pink.

“I’m just fucking with you,” Mickey says, draining the beer. Thinking about it, he isn’t really in the mood either. It just seemed like the kind of thing to suggest that would cheer Ian up. He’s struck by a sudden idea. “Okay then, what about breakfast food?”

“Is that a euphemism?” Ian asks. “I can’t tell.”

“No,” Mickey sets the glass down and elbows Ian in the side. “No it is not. It is exactly what it sounds like. Pancakes.”

“Denny’s?” Ian visibly perks up.

It’s entirely possible, Mickey thinks as they leave the bar, that his friendship with Ian Gallagher can sustain itself forever solely on their joint love of breakfast food. That and the fact that Ian is really, really good at fucking him in the ass, but he isn’t sure that counts.

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, a waiter presents Mickey with an enormous stack of pancakes, which is the second best thing he’s laid eyes on today. The first best, sitting across from him, starts laughing.

“You look like you’re gonna do something indecent to those,” Ian manages to say around his giggles. “You want me to leave you two alone?”

Mickey purposefully stuffs his mouth full and raises his eyebrows at Ian defiantly.

“So there’s something I’ve been curious about,” Ian says a few minutes later when Mickey’s desire to scarf down his food has abated a little. As far as conversation starters go this isn’t an encouraging one. Mickey elects to just stare at him with the hopes that it’ll put the thought out of his head, but of course it doesn’t work.

“How’d you and Mandy end up wanting to be in a band at all?” Ian says. “Like, where’d that come from? It’s not like the schools in our neighborhood had a music program.”

“What, she hasn’t divulged our entire life story to you yet?”

“I think she’s saving some parts for her autobiography.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “How’d you decide you wanted to blow up terrorists for a living?”

“Okay, fine,” Ian throws up his hands. “And I never actually saw any combat, by the way. We mostly did shit like guard school entrances and check roads for buried land mines.”

“And you joined up because you like how you look in camo.”

“Why, do you?” Ian’s eyes twinkle and Mickey vicious eats more pancakes to avoid the question. It is a good question, though, and he doesn’t really mind answering it. He likes telling Ian stuff, and he doesn’t tell anyone anything if he can get around it.

“I dunno, man,” he says after a minute. Ian’s face registers surprise; he apparently thought Mickey had dropped the subject. “It was something Mandy and I did to blow off steam as kids. My brothers would’ve beaten me up if they knew I spent time writing songs and shit but Mandy thought it was cool for some reason. And she had a friend whose mom taught piano. She taught Mandy to play.”

“How’d you learn to play guitar?”

“Figured it out,” Mickey says. He hesitates for a minute. “When I was twelve,” he says, and it feels weird because this is a weird ridiculous story that he’s never told anyone. “This guy owed my dad money. People always do, but this guy owed him like ten grand and didn’t pay. So Terry and my uncle and Tony and Iggy robbed the guy’s house, took everything that looked valuable, and for some reason Tony grabbed the guy’s guitar. Probably thought he could sell it or something, but it was a beat up piece of shit. Terry was gonna throw it out but I saw it sitting in the living room with all the other stuff and I nabbed it and hid it in my closet.”

Ian is staring at him with his mouth open, and a smile spreads slowly across his face. “You stole a stolen guitar,” he says.

“And fucked around on it when Terry wasn’t home, figured out a few chords. It passed the time, and when Mandy found out she demanded we form a band. She was, like, ten, but the idea stuck I guess.”

“You learned how to play guitar without being able to read music?” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey snaps defensively. “It ain’t that hard to tell what sounds good together. And I can now, I learned.”

“No, I’m impressed,” Ian says. “You’ve gotta have an incredible ear.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I’m serious!”

“Mandy started to teach me but that only went so far,” Mickey says. “She’s taught me a lot, y’know, lately, about actual music theory and shit but I was a teenager and didn’t really want to sit still while my kid sister taught me chords.”

“When did you learn?” Ian asks.

“Juvie,” Mickey chews on a mouthful of waffle. “Nothing else to do but work out and read books.”

“You went to juvie?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “When I was sixteen.”

“What for?”

Mickey shrugs. “Assault.” He’d been running a job for his uncle and it had gone wrong, but it’s not a story he really wants to tell.

“That’s shitty,” Ian says.

“Eh, whatever. Coulda been worse. Least it wasn’t a drug charge like Iggy. What about you, then?”

“What about me?”

“You ever get busted for anything?”

“No,” Ian says, and Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Really! I never did.”

“Never got caught, you mean,” Mickey says, and Ian laughs a little sheepishly. His face goes a pink when he does, and he looks very handsome slightly flushed and a little abashed.

“Yeah, okay, fuck you,” he laughs. “I definitely got up to some shit. Lip covered for me big time once or twice to keep my record clean.”

“What’d you do that was so bad?”

“Got pulled over driving a stolen car once. We didn’t steal the car, Fiona’s douchebag ex-boyfriend did, but we were driving it. And, uh, we stole a laser from the college so Lip could build a robot.”

“A laser.” Mickey says. “For a robot.”

“A fighting robot.” Ian is busy getting his straw out of its paper wrapper, but he grins at him over the rim of his milkshake. “It won us a bunch of money, too. The trophy’s still sitting in our living room. I thought Fiona was gonna murder us that time but she held off. Barely.”

“Okay fine,” Mickey says. “You ain’t a complete square.”

“There’s some hope for me, or something. I did break someone’s leg once!” Ian’s face lights up.

“Jesus, don’t look so excited.”

“I used to do karate.”

“Oh, of course you did,” Mickey says. Ian balls up the wrapper from his straw and flicks it off the tip of his finger. It hits Mickey square in the forehead and bounces into the puddle of syrup on his plate. “Are you five?” Mickey asks indignantly. Ian pulls a face that is probably supposed to look innocent and unassuming, but mostly makes him look like a kicked puppy. Mickey looks at him skeptically, stirring the ice in his glass of water with his straw, and Ian’s ‘oh it wasn’t me’ face gets even more ridiculous. Too ridiculous. Ridiculous enough that Mickey doesn’t feel bad for yanking the straw out of his glass with his finger on the top to trap the water inside, sticking it in his mouth and spraying it into his wounded expression.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ian shouts, wiping at his face. His face and shirt are barely wet. Furiously, Ian picks up his fork and sticks a glob of his milkshake on the end, probably with the intention of launching it across the table like a catapult, but it’s at that moment their waiter walks up to refill their water.

They both jump, guiltily, and Ian puts the fork down. Their waiter, a young man with dark hair, eyes them skeptically as he reaches across the table to pour water into Mickey’s glass, and as soon as he walks away they simultaneously start laughing.

“We’ll have to give him a big tip,” Ian manages to say ten minutes (or what feels like ten minutes) later.

“I wanna hear more about your killer laser robot first,” Mickey says.

Ian tells him, and then tells him the story of his sister’s ex-boyfriend with the stolen car business, and after that goes on to describe how his family had once faked his father’s death to get him out of a bad business deal. It apparently involved contraband horse tranquilizers and a lot of fake crying and the whole thing is so ridiculous that Mickey hardly notices the restaurant is clearing out and it’s past one in the morning. He does notice when their waiter comes back and asks them pointedly if they’re going to order anything else, or just continue to sit there. Ian pay, and tips the guy almost twenty percent. Mickey flips him off as they leave so he feels all in all it equals out.

It’s not until they’re out in the street that Mickey realizes under other circumstances this may have been considered a date. He pushes the thought aside and concentrates on what Ian is saying, which is, “Are you gonna walk home or catch the bus back to your place?”

“I’ll get the bus,” Mickey says. There’s a stop right outside Ian’s apartment and the night is warm and clear and only a little humid so he follows Ian down the road. The stars are out, barely visible between the buildings and the layers of cloud and light pollution. He can still see them though, barely, blurry pinpoints of light.

Ian notices him staring skyward as they walk, because he glances in Mickey’s direction and slows down a little. “I went to basic in bum-fuck nowhere Colorado, and the only benefit was the skies at night. It got so dark and the stars were so bright, not like here. You’d walk outside and the sky went on forever. It was weird. Amazing, though.”

Mickey has never lived anywhere else. He can’t even imagine it.

“Did you miss the city? When you were deployed?” He asks. They’ve reached Ian’s apartment building and Ian turns to look at him, frowning a little.

“Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t think I was gonna, not at all. I was so ready to get the fuck out. And then I left. It was my family, mostly, but Chicago too. It was great, of course, seeing places that are so different from this. But I don’t know if I’d leave again.

“Fuck, man,” Mickey shakes his head. “It was hard enough moving from one part of the city to another.” He smirks up at Ian. “Though that distance doesn’t seem to make a difference when there are meth dealers in your sister’s pool, huh?”

“Fiona’d half expect me to jet-set back from Baghdad if it would help keep the kids safe,” Ian says. “And, God help me, I’d probably at least try. Not that they need my help. Debs is formidable with a baseball bat, and Carl builds Molotov cocktails as a hobby.”

“They’d get along well with Mandy,” Mickey says, and Ian laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Half of his face is highlighted by the streetlamps near the stairs to his front door, yellowish and a little indistinct, and the hair falling into eyes casts long shadows down his cheeks.

“This was a good idea,” Ian says, and his voice is quieter, or maybe it’s just softer. “A lot better than sitting in the bar wallowing in my bad mood.”

Mickey bites back something sarcastic. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Wasn’t having the greatest day ever either.”

“It’s a good thing it’s already tomorrow, then,” Ian says. “Which means I gotta go to bed now to have any hope of getting up on time for work.” Somewhat guiltily, Mickey remembers he had promised Mandy he’d get up and practice with her in the morning, which probably won’t happen now. “And look, there’s the bus. Right on time.” The bus is rounding the corner at the end of the street.

“Well, see ya,” Mickey says. There’s something in the way Ian is looking at him, the way his eyes look bright and warm and a little sleepy in the strange atmosphere of the yellow streetlights, that makes Mickey almost stop and tell him to get on the bus too, follow him home. It’s a passing thought and a goddamned stupid one, but the intensity of his desire to do so makes Mickey feel faint for a moment. He jerks himself around and takes a few steps to go stand closer to the bus stop.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Night Mickey.” His footsteps start up the stairs.

The bus is still coming down the street and Mickey’s heart will not stop hammering against his ribcage as he watches it get closer. It’s telling him he has about thirty seconds before the bus stops at the curb and before Ian gets all the way up the stairs to do something really, really stupid. Unbelievably and entirely insane. Fucking nuts. The kind of thing that, if seen, Mickey’s father would break a bottle over his head for. Or worse. His heart is racing out of control and he feels like if he doesn’t do something, either turn back around or run to meet the bus, he’ll combust.

His body makes up his mind for him because he turns around without really deciding to, takes the stairs two at a time. Ian is only halfway up them so Mickey reaches him in three big steps, and he starts to turn at the sound. Mickey has a moment before he fully reaches Ian, before his outstretched hand touches Ian’s shoulder where he could stop his momentum and turn back around.

 _Gonna get beat if you act like that_ , says his father’s voice, unbidden.

‘Fuck Terry,” Mickey thinks, and he kisses Ian on the mouth.

He steps back and practically flies back down the stairs probably only a few seconds later, throwing up his middle finger for good measure, dashes into the open doors of the empty bus right before they start to close. He shows his card to the driver and throws himself into a seat, heart crammed somewhere against his windpipe and going a mile a minute.

Ian is standing halfway up the stairs as the bus pulls away from the curb, but Mickey thinks he can see him smiling.

* * *

 

Their set the next day goes well, really well. They’ve been playing in the same bar frequently enough that they’ve apparently built up some kind of following and there are a good man people in the crowd wearing their t-shirts and actually singing the words to Mickey’s songs. Words he wrote. It’s an overwhelming idea and Mickey is worried he’ll start to panic if he focuses on it too hard.

Ian pouring beers in a Mandy and the Misdemeanors t-shirt that’s a little too tight across the shoulders elicits a similar reaction along with a feeling Mickey can only really compare with what happens when you drop a mentos into a half full jug of coke, except it’s taking place inside his stomach. Midway through their set, he brings them both fresh beers and asks, cheekily, “You wanna sign my shirt?” He’s even got a permanent marker in hand.

Mandy writes her name in big loop letters over Ian’s stomach and draws a little heart instead of an ‘a.’ Mickey rolls his eyes, but scribbles his initials under Ian’s left collarbone right above the word ‘Misdemeanors.’ Ian grins and bounces off, and Mickey decides he wants to cover Noah and the Whale because it’s the only thing that seems to go with the weird, happy feeling inside his ribs.

The bar is slammed by the time they wrap up, so rather than try and wade through the crowd Mickey considers texting Ian to ask if he wants to meet him at home later, and steps out back for a cigarette because the prospect makes him incredibly nervous.The bar has a back door that opens up to an alley where its employees sit and smoke on their breaks; the door outside is halfway down a hallway that has nothing but a janitorial closet and an employee bathroom at the end of it. Mickey steps outside. His lighter isn’t doing much but cough up fumes and he’s so intent on struggling with it that he doesn’t notice there are people leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, inside the building from where he’s standing. A woman with brown hair, intently kissing somebody else. Mickey hasn’t closed the door all the way and he can see them through the crack; he’s about to open the door again and ask if either of them have a lighter when the woman pulls back, and he can see from the line of the nose that it’s Svetlana. She’s got a distinctive nose. She’s laughing, smoothing her hair away from her face, and looks flushed and very pretty.

A second later her makeout partner shifts a little so the light hits her face, and Mickey drops his lighter.

It’s Mandy.

Mandy, biting her lip flirtatiously as Svetlana says something Mickey can’t hear. Mandy, whose lipstick is smudged a little at the corner of her mouth and who is smiling hugely anyway. Mandy, who reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind Svetlana’s ear, and who leans forward to kiss Svetlana slowly and sensuously enough that Mickey turns around and yanks the door the rest of the way shut. They’re kissing like people who have kissed before and who are comfortable with kissing each other, not like strangers kissing for the first time.

He lets out a very deep breath, trying to align things in his mind and very desperate for a cigarette.

His sister is dating Svetlana? Svetlana’s who Mandy’s been dating? Mandy has been getting all giggly and gooey over a girl? A girl he knows and who regularly threatens to stab him with kitchen implements if he doesn’t carry her purse?

It would almost be easier if it didn’t make any sense but it does, both the fact the Mandy is dating a girl and that girl happens to be Svetlana. Mickey is mostly bewildered to how he missed it. He’d been distracted with other things. Speaking of.

Rather than going back inside the way he came he exits the alley and re-enters the bar through the front door, shoves his way up to the counter and grabs Ian’s elbow as soon as Ian isn’t actively carrying someone else’s drink.

“Hey,” Ian says, looking like he’s trying not to look annoyed but it’s completely succeeding. “What--”

“Did you know about Mandy and Svetlana?” Mickey hisses. Ian blinks at him.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I did. Why? Did you--”

“I saw them,” Mickey says. “Just now.”

“Well?” Ian’s face is bordering on apprehensive.

“Well what?” Mickey snaps. “What, you think I’m gonna freak out cause Mandy’s fucking girls now?”

“It’s a surprising thing to discover out of the blue,” Ian says.

“You ain’t wrong, but Jesus, I just need a drink, I’m not gonna throw a fit. Come on, man.”

“Right,” Ian smiles. “Whiskey?”

“Good man.” Ian pulls a glass out from under the bar and fills it, adds soda, slides it across the counter at Mickey.

“Hey, listen,” he says, tugging on his lower lip with his teeth. It’s a distracting movement but his voice is serious, so Mickey drags his eyes from Ian’s mouth to meet his gaze. “Don’t, uh,” Ian is obviously trying to choose his words carefully. “Don’t jump down her throat about it. She’s been really worried about finding a way to tell you herself.”

“What?” Mickey, about to down his drink, blinks. “Really?”

Ian nods firmly. “So just let her, if you can,” he says. “Let her do it on her own time.”

“You talk about this shit when I’m not around?” Mickey says, but he nods. Ian looks relieved. “Course I won’t,” he says. “Could use a refill, though.”

“Yeah, you got it,” Ian smiles at him across the bar. There are people jostling Mickey’s elbows for space and trying to get the bartenders’ attention and shouting and dancing, but Ian is smiling his lopsided slow-growing smile just for Mickey and nobody else, and that makes Mickey feel. Well. Strange. Nauseous. Over exposed. But also like things will probably be just fine, if he’s able to make Ian smile like that.

 


	14. Part Three: iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mickey speaks again, it feels like he is hauling up a huge weight from deep, deep inside him. dislodging it and dragging it, unbelievably heavy and grating and wrong. It takes him a few tries for his lips to form the words and it strikes him as he says it that he’s never said this. Not to anyone. He’s never looked anyone in the eye and spat this out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for some violence, homophobic language and descriptions of past child abuse. 
> 
> iangalager.tumblr.com

It’s pouring buckets outside, and Mandy is out for the morning, and Ian is fucking Mickey like neither of them have anywhere else they need to be.

When Ian had knocked on the door, Mickey had assumed it was Mandy forgetting her keys or phone or whatever and had found, instead, Ian, dripping rainwater onto the mat outside their door. Mickey’d blinked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“You gonna invite me in or what?” Ian had asked, and Mickey had, of course.

“Gonna start charging you rent,” Mickey had said, and Ian had leaned against the kitchen counter with his hair wet and sticking up in the back and smiled. Mickey had known Ian was going to kiss him but had still felt something a little like the feeling you get when you’re poised at the top of a roller coaster when Ian slid his hand around Mickey’s chin and tilted it up so Mickey’s mouth met his.

Kissing Ian is like. It’s like flying, maybe, and Mickey had to open his eyes to be sure that the roar in his blood, this dizziness wasn’t coming from his sudden and unexpected ascent into the stratosphere.

They’d kissed, Mickey digging his fingers into Ian’s hips hard, against the counter for a minute and then Mickey had pulled back and had stepped away towards his bedroom. He’d glanced over his shoulder and said, “You gonna follow me or what?” in the same tone of voice Ian had used at the door.

And now they’re here, Ian’s fingers holding Mickey’s hips and Mickey’s elbows planted in his mattress and his hands curling into the crumpled sheets he hadn't bothered to make earlier. Ian is fucking him slowly but with intention. His hands move up Mickey's back to tangle in his hair and Mickey arches into him, making Ian swear under his breath. He presses even harder, even closer to him and he leans forward so his mouth is brushing Mickey's shoulder. 

"Fuck," he says, and the word is half-swallowed by Mickey's shoulder but he can feel it in the way Ian's mouth moves against his skin. Mickey arches against him even more to feel the way his breath catches. 

“Wait-- fuck--” That isn’t a good ‘fuck,’ because Ian pulls back.

“Gallagher,” Mickey says, half a snap and half a whine. “What’s the problem?”

“I heard--” There is the distinctive sound of a key in a lock, then the sound of the front door opening.

“Mandy,” they say at the same time. Ian stands, bangs his knee on the bedframe and starts digging in the sheets for his shirt. He yanks it on.

“What the fuck are you gonna do?” Mickey barks, flipping over. Mandy’s voice, echoey, can be heard. She’s still in the hallway, probably on the phone.

“I don’t know,” Ian whirls in a circle until he locates his pants, starts to pull them on then realizes they’re backwards. “She’s probably on the phone with Svetlana, she isn’t paying attention. I’ll just. Jump into the living room real fast.”

“What the fuck am I gonna do?” Mickey shouts.

“Get in the shower?”

“What?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Ian is frantically smoothing his hair out of his face. “You feeling like being transparent with Mandy about this right now? Cause I don’t feel like being interrogated.”

This is a good point, and a good a plan as any. Standing in the shower with a huge hard-on is preferable to running into the living room, or climbing out his bedroom window, or talking to his sister. Ian dashes out of the bedroom door and flings himself onto the couch, and Mickey swears and runs into the bathroom.

He turns the shower on cold.

When he gets out, six or seven minutes later, Ian is sitting on the couch looking as nonchalant as possible and Mandy is towelling her hair dry. She raises her eyebrows at his wet hair.

“Fucking car sprayed mud all over me walking home,” Mickey says defensively. “I had shit all in my hair and my shirt’s all fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Ian nods vigorously. “Didn’t help that he chased the car for two blocks in the rain, either.”

“You sure you weren’t just jerking off in the middle of the day?” Mandy throws the towel in the direction of the bathroom. “Band practice, asswipe.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says. Mandy sticks out her tongue and gets up, heading towards the door and the stairs down to the basement. Mickey stomps after her.

“You sure that’s not what you were doing?” Ian hisses in his ear as they walk out the door, and Mickey turns around, raises an eyebrow.

“Hilarious. What you doing? Joining the band?”

“Fuck no, you heard how I sing.”

“You just wanna watch the geniuses in action, huh?”

“I could be down for that.”

“Oh yeah? That all you down for?” Mickey smirks. Ian rolls his eyes. “No really,” Mickey says. “You gotta have better stuff to do with your day off than hang around watching us play.”

Ian shrugs. “Not really,” he says, and pushes past Mickey to head down the stairs. Mickey at his retreating back, then jogs after him when Mandy shouts his name.

Their practice goes really well, considering they don’t usually practice with an audience. Ian doesn’t applaud or anything annoying, and only cracks up a little when Mandy and Mickey get into a ten-minute heated discussion about whether or not the E minor chord in their new song sounds right or not. Ian mostly sits on the floor and listens, his head resting on his knee. He follows them upstairs when they finish up and starts to put on his sneakers.

“What are you two doing today?” Mickey throws himself onto the couch and Mandy sits down next to him, yawning.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m napping and figuring out the keyboard line in that song, and then going to see a movie.”

“A hot date?” Ian waggles his eyebrows. Mandy throws her jacket at him. “To which I’m not invited. I’m insulted.”

“We decided the other day that if we’re both in our forties and haven’t found anyone else we’ll get hitched for the tax benefits,” Mandy says. “But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to come.”

“I’ve got plans anyway,” Ian says, tossing Mandy’s jacket back at him. His throw goes wide and the jacket lands on Mickey’s head. The jacket is still soggy.

“You got plans in this rain?” Mickey tosses it onto the floor. It squelches when it lands.

“Yeah, Kev’s holding some kind of fundraiser thing at the Alibi and I feel obligated to stop by and play some pool so it’s more than the fifteen deadbeats drinking Old Style, and my sister.”

“You mean that shitty bar with the red front?” Mickey asks, and Ian’s face goes indignant.

“It’s not a shitty bar!” He pauses. “Well, okay. It’s kind of a shitty bar but its our shitty bar.” Mickey holds up his hands in mock surrender.

Ian’s finished shoving his feet into his shoes and he stands, steps over to the couch to hug Mandy from behind. His arm brushes Mickey’s shoulder, which makes Mickey grit his teeth and then blurt out what he’s thinking.

“You want someone to kick your ass at pool, huh?” He says. Ian, his arms still looped around Mandy’s shoulders, frowns.

“You wanna come?”

“Ain’t doing anything better,” Mickey shrugs. “Why the skepticism?”

“I dunno,” Ian chews his lip for a second. “You didn’t seem real keen to hang around the Southside after, uh--” After that one time I kissed you and then we had a fight, Ian’s face says.

“Yo,” Mickey rolls his eyes. “Don’t fucking tell me what I do and don’t wanna do.”

“Okay,” Ian’s whole face looks lighter, and he smiles. “I’ll probably head over at seven or something. Got some errands to run before. You wanna meet me there?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey says, then adds, “douchebag,” to emphasize that he isn’t getting soft.

“Are you, uh, gonna fucking let go of me?” Mandy says, and Ian releases her sheepishly.

* * *

 

Mickey definitely recognizes the Alibi when he heads across town later that evening; its painted bright red and squished in between two other shops and he almost walks right past it at first. When he opens the door he sees Ian’s description was more or less correct. It’s filled with maybe 20 plaid-wearing tired looking men and women, and Ian’s sister who’s sitting next to Ian and another woman Mickey doesn’t know at the bar.

His eyes pass around the bar three times, a reflex, but he doesn’t see any faces that are close to being familiar, so he steps inside.

Ian is deeply involved in telling Fiona something so he doesn’t notice Mickey walks up and sits down next to him. Mickey leans over, taps Ian on the shoulder and says, with as much smirk in his voice as he can, “So, uh, you come here often?”

Ian turns around fast, then stops, his mouth curving up into a smile. “Sometimes,” he says. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

“Cause you’re walking around with your fucking eyes closed, probably,” Mickey says, and Ian almost drops his beer. He sets it securely on the counter and waves down the bar, calling “Yo, Kev!”

Kev is instantly recognizable as the guy who was grilling burgers at the Gallagher’s barbecue because he’s about a billion feet tall and has a lot of hair. “You’re Mickey, right?” he says. “What’ll it be?”

“Boilermaker,” Mickey says, enjoying the fact that nobody in this bar is going to ask which craft beer he’d like to drop his shot into. Kev slides it across the counter to him and Mickey accepts it then glances over at Ian. “Where’s the rest of clan Gallagher, then?” He asks.

“Lip said he’s working late,” Ian rolls his eyes. “Which I think is code for Lip’s sleeping with someone he works with.”

“The rest are at the age where they don’t wanna spend their time with parental figures,” Fiona is wearing a plaid vest with no sleeves and drinking what is probably whiskey, straight. “And anyway, we spent all afternoon trying to shop for Debbie’s birthday. Needed a break.”

“At least you have an idea what seventeen year old girls like, seeing as you were one once,” Ian says, draining the beer in his hand. “You still wanna play pool?”

“If you’re prepared for the beating of a lifetime,” Mickey grins.

“Actually, I was thinking you and me up against Vee and Fiona-- and I can’t beat Vee on my own.” The woman sitting on the other side of Fiona, leopard-print dress and bright lips, waves.

“One game,” Fiona says. “Then Vee and I have a collection of kids to put to bed. What do you say?” She grins

“Fine, okay, it’s on,” Mickey says. “You’re both smug bastards.” He hops off his stool, and Ian high fives Fiona over his head as he walks over to the pool table.

“I’m Veronica, by the way,” Fiona’s friend smiles at Mickey from across the pool table as they get ready. “Or Vee. Unofficial Gallagher, I guess.”

“They sure treat us like one considering how often they borrow our toaster,” Kev sets another round of beers down next to the pool table. “Or the television? Or my shower? Or my fucking truck? They’re like a swarm, Gallaghers,” Kev points a finger at Mickey’s face. The finger comes from a billion feet above Mickey’s head. “They’ll take over if you give them half an inch. And speaking of--”

The Alibi’s door bangs open and Ian, Fiona and Vee all simultaneously roll their eyes.

“It’s like he’s summoned,” Fiona sighs. “C’mon, let’s play. None of us have any money, Frank!”

“Do you hear how my children speak to me?” A man who is unmistakably Ian’s father, aged up four years with a lot more grey hair, has settled himself at the bar.

“Ladies first,” Ian says to Vee, gesturing to the pool table. As she lines up to shoot, Ian bends over til his mouth is up against Mickey’s ear.

“I’m sure there’s a joke about a stick and balls in here somewhere, but I’ll save for later,” he says.

“You did not just say that,” Mickey says and Ian dances backwards out the reach of his elbow.

They lose, spectacularly, and Fiona and Vee triumphantly waltz out the door. When they go back to the bar to get another round, Kev shakes his head when Ian pulls out his wallet. “This one’s on the house,” he says. Ian starts shaking his head but Kev cuts him off. “It’s ungentlemanlike to turn down a free drink,” he says. “Shut up and take it. I’m glad to see you around.”

“Be a gentleman, Gallagher,” Mickey says.

“Okay, fine,” Ian accepts the beer. “Fine, you win.”

“You never give me free drinks,” a voice slurs from Ian’s right. Frank is leaning towards them across the counter.

“It’s, uh, a military discount,” Kev says. Ian grins into his beer.

“Does that extend to family?”

“Fuck no!”

“I’m a taxpayer!” Frank says, and Kev pauses in wiping the bar counter to stare at him. “And do you know what keep our military going? Taxes, yanked from the hands of hard-working Americans so our sons and daughters can go overseas and get blown up!”

“If you find any hardworking Americans around here, let me know,” Kev rolls his eyes and walks off to start collecting glasses.

“You didn’t even notice when I left, Frank,” Ian says. “And you have to actually, y’know, have a job and spend money to pay taxes.”

“Do you hear how he’s talking to me?” Frank says, to nobody in particular.

“Really,” Ian says to Mickey. “I came home after boot camp and he asked if I’d been in jail.”

“It isn’t my fault nobody in this family tells me what’s going on!” Frank says.

“You were at my going away party!”

“Was not.”

“You ate a third of my cake before the party started and blacked out under the kitchen table.”

“My children--” Frank starts, and Ian turns back around and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, we don’t respect you. Everyone knows that.”

Frank stands up, glares, and staggers away towards the restroom.

“He hasn’t changed much, from what I remember,” Mickey says wryly.

Ian sighs. “Probably never will. He had a liver transplant a few years ago, back on the wagon a week later. He can't be killed.”

“Like a cockroach?”

“Yeah, when we all die in a nuclear explosion the world will be inhabited by insects and Frank.”

“There’s a horror movie,” Mickey says, and Ian cackles.

They watch some of the booze-soaked patrons play a very unsteady game of pool for a while, and Mickey half tunes in to Kev telling Ian in detail about one of his children’s attempts to brush her own teeth. It’s interrupted when there is a sudden and scary crash from the bathroom. Kev throws his bar towel down.

“FRANK!” He yells, and strides away. Ian hops up off his stool with a sigh.

“Be right back,” he says, and jogs after Kev. Mickey turns more of his attention to the pool game. The players can’t seem to remember who is on which team, and keep switching back and forth. Mickey’s watching them drunkenly argue about it when the bar’s doors open and two familiar faces step through and he feels like someone has punched him in the gut. The air goes out of him that fast.

Carson and Rosco. Friend’s of Terry’s, or at least the kind of people Terry calls up to make a delivery or rob a house when he doesn’t have the time or energy to do it himself. Mickey’s always thought of them as Ugly Mean and Ugly Stupid in his head. They spot him immediately, it’s impossible for them not to, and Carson strides over to him while Rosco walks off towards the bathroom. Ugly Mean, then. Mickey’s fingers curl around one of the empty beer bottles on the table.

“Well,” Carson’s a skinhead with a nasally voice and big, ugly front teeth. His grin shows them off, like a hyena. “Look who the fuck it is. Mickey Milkovich. Didn’t think you hung around in this neighborhood anymore. Thought you moved to Boystown.” He laughs like this is the funniest thing anyone has ever said.

Mickey’s fingers are clamped around the bottle like a vice. “Carson,” he says. “Nice to know you’ haven’t gotten any funnier or better looking.” He turns around to face the bar, banging his knee.

“Terry don’t know know you’re hanging around here, do he?” Carson asks, and Mickey’s heart jackknives sideways. “Cause I don’t think he’d be happy. Not at all.”

“Shut the fuck up if you like your features where they are,” Mickey snaps. “Can’t see why you would, of course.”

“You looking to get hit?” Carson says, right as Kev steps back up to the bar.

“There a problem fellas?” He says.

“No problem,” Carson says. “Just didn’t realize what kinda bar this is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kev’s voice goes hard. Mickey thinks privately that Carson is really Ugly, Mean and Completely Lacking in Self Preservation, because Kev is about seven feet tall and looks like he could take someone’s head off if provoked.

“I mean the quality of your clientele.”

“I ask myself that every day,” Kev says. “But we can’t keep Frank out. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“I mean,” Carson claps Mickey on the shoulder, and Mickey’s whole body tenses. “Pillow biters. Like this one.”

Kev’s eyes narrow. “Don’t give a shit who anybody bangs,” he says, and even though Mickey hardly knows him he feels very grateful for his seven-foot ass. “Do give a shit about people picking fights in my bar, though.”

Carson claps Mickey on the shoulder again. “Don’t fucking touch me,” Mickey barks.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“Break every knuckle in your hand. Outside though, because I have common courtesy.”

“Back off, man,” Kev says. “Don’t start any trouble.”

“You really gonna come to the defense of this shirtlifter? Little queer shit’s not worth it,” Carson says, right as Ian comes around the bar. He stops abruptly and his eyes jump from Mickey’s face to Carson’s hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

“Who the fuck are you?” he says, and his voice is mean and sharp. “And what the fuck did you just say?”

“Oh, Milkovich, this your boyfriend? He gonna come to your rescue?”

Mickey seizes his hand and shoves it up and away from his shoulder, then stands up. There’s something red hot throbbing in his temples and he’s good at being mean and he’s good at winning fights. But he shouldn’t, so he takes a deep breath.

“C’mon Gallagher, let’s get the fuck outta here,” he says. Ian makes a strangled, angry sound under his breath. Carson starts to laugh as Mickey turns towards the door.

“Yeah, run away! I’ll make sure to tell your dad you and your cock gobbler boyfriend say hi!”

Ian is moving suddenly, unexpectedly, so fast that Mickey doesn’t even have time to think about stopping him. He seizes Carson by the shoulders and headbutts him in the face. Hard. Carson staggers and Ian punches him hard enough that he topples over and Mickey throws himself onto Ian’s back before he can follow him to the floor. Ian is bigger on him, and mad, but Mickey manages to pin his arms behind him and haul him up and backwards. Everyone in the bar seems to be on their feet and Mickey can hear them cheering or shouting or something, a distant roar that sounds very far away. Carson’s lip is split and bloody; there’s blood on Ian’s face and the vein in his temple is jumping and as he struggles against Mickey’s grip Mickey can tell his breathing is irregular and his heart rate fast.

“You little shit!” Carson is clutching his face. “I’m gonna kill you, you little shit!”

“You gonna call your friend over here?” Ian shouts, still straining against Mickey’s grip. “Go on. Call him over here and tell him you got beat up by a little queer shit. Go on!”

“Gallagher!” Mickey yanks Ian around, grapples with him for a moment until he can get his hands around Ian’s wrists.

Ian’s pupils are huge and blown out and there’s blood trickling down his nose from his forehead. He stares at Mickey like Mickey’s not even there. Mickey is vaguely aware that Kev is hauling Carson to his feet and shoving him towards the door behind him, but he focuses on Ian’s face.

“Ian, it’s okay,” Mickey says, because Mickey has to say something and he doesn’t understand what’s happening really except there’s this thing inside Ian that Ian always steps quietly around and right now it’s winning. “Jesus. Look at me.” He lets go of Ian’s wrist, slowly. “It’s okay. Ian.”

Ian’s hands drop.

“You two get outta here,” Kev says behind them. “I had to call the cops, if those two loiter around here they’ll get busted. Don’t be near here when that happens. I’m fucking sorry. Piece of shit.”

Mickey pushes Ian, gently, to get him moving and they step out the Alibi’s doors into the night. Ian is still breathing hard and he looks like he wants to collapse on the curb but they can’t stop and stay here so Mickey grabs at his arm and pulls him in a random direction, walking as fast as he can. His feet carry him left, then down a road for four blocks, then right, and then they stop in front of the old and very rundown baseball diamond where Mickey played Little League. It’s dark and deserted. Mickey pushes open the beat-up metal gate and Ian, his t-shirt pressed to his face to stop any more blood dripping anywhere, walks past him and onto the grass.

* * *

 

“Hey man, stop,” Mickey watches Ian pace back and forth like a pendulum’s swing, closer then away again. “Hey, hold still a sec, Ian. Ian.” Ian stops and Mickey steps up to him, tugging his balled-up t-shirt away from his face. There’s a cut, a small one, above his eye. Mickey pushes Ian’s hair back to look at it and Ian winces, but it’s stopped bleeding. Mickey can feel his pulse in his temples and its racing; he’s taking deep breaths through his nose.

“Is it bad?” He asks. He sounds like something in his diaphragm is being squeezed.

“Nah,” Mickey says. “Chump change really. You do got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. The big overhead floodlights aren’t on, either because the diamond isn’t being used or because the bulbs are burned out (the latter is probably the case because park maintenance isn’t high on anybody’s priority list in this neighborhood). Light is filtering in through the streetlights beyond the seats but Ian’s face is unreadable in the dark. His eyes are closed and he’s still breathing evenly but a little raggedly, and he leans into Mickey’s hand.

A minute later he pulls back, running his hands through his hair to push it out of his face. He shakes his head like a dog shaking away water.“Why’d you stop here?” he asks, glancing around them.

“Know how to get in,” Mickey says. “Figured nobody would follow us.”

“Played Little League?”

“Used to sneak in here and fuck when I was a teenager,” Mickey says dryly, and Ian snorts. “And I played Little League too. Not at the same time, obviously.” Ian laughs at that and it fades into a sigh that Mickey can practically feel in his bones.

“Who was that fuckhead anyway?” Ian asks after another minute. Mickey knew he was going to, that it was just a matter of time.

“Friends of Terry,” Mickey says shortly. He can feel Ian looking at him in the half-light and pointedly looks out across the empty field past the home plate.

“Charming,” Ian says bitterly.

“Yeah, you’ve got no fucking idea.”

“They always like that?” Ian’s voice is delicate and quiet in the night air. The train rattles in the distance.

“Yeah! Normal. That was a pleasant and enjoyable conversation, I had a great time,” Mickey snaps.

Ian sighs, doesn’t say anything for a moment. He looks out over the ballfield too. “This place sure got run down, huh?” he says.

This is, Mickey’s willing to admit, a weird place to decide to come back to. It was an automatic reflex, to head immediately back to one of the places he used to hide out when things were going south. The bus would have made more sense. Even Gallagher’s sisters house, only a few blocks away, which would at the very least have something more to sit on than slightly damp grass. But that would mean people asking questions, demanding answers, inserting themselves into the situation and filling up the space that’s sitting in between Mickey’s words and Ian’s silence.

“I thought I broke my fucking nose,” Ian unfolds his shirt and grimaces at the blood smeared on it, then tosses it unceremoniously onto the grass. He joins it a second later, stretching his legs out in front of him. Mickey feels suddenly very tired, so he sits too, crossing his legs and digging his fingers into the grass.

“Your nose is fine, dumbass.” Mickey rubs at his mouth with his thumb. “You still probably shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “They could cause trouble for you later.”

“Fuck that,” Ian snaps, then sighs. “I know, it was a bit of an impulse move. But I just hear shit like that too often, you know? Sometimes you can’t just, fuck, sit there and take it. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Mickey says. “At least warn your fucking sister, okay? Terry probably issued a fucking attack-on-sight order when Mandy and me took off and you waltz into my bullshit headbutting guys in the face. You don’t want any part of that shitshow. So you will be fucking careful because this isn’t a joke. He isn’t a joke.”

“I know--”

“You don’t know anything,” Mickey says. “Don’t pretend like you fucking know what you’re talking about because you don’t.”

“What if I wanna try?” Ian says.

He yanks a clump of grass out of the earth and flings it away from him. Something in his stomach feels heavy and hot, something solid and horrible that’s pressing on his innards from the inside, putting pressure on his ribs and his tongue and the base of his skull. He feels jumpy and skittish, too small for his skin and unable to sit still and he wants to hit something and he wants to open his mouth and let everything spill out. Ian hasn’t demanded anything, and because he hasn’t demanded it Mickey wants to tell him. He takes a deep breath, and Ian’s body jerks upward a little like he knows what he’s going to do.

“Mickey--” Ian says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anyone say his name the way Ian says his name. “That isn’t what I meant--” Ian stops, then starts again. “It’s okay, you know. I get it. You don’t have to fucking explain, it’s okay--”

“Gallagher--” Mickey barks and, incredibly, Ian shuts his mouth.

When Mickey speaks again, it feels like he is hauling up a huge weight from deep, deep inside him. dislodging it and dragging it, unbelievably heavy and grating and wrong. It takes him a few tries for his lips to form the words and it strikes him as he says it that he’s never said this. Not to anyone. He’s never looked anyone in the eye and spat this out.

“When I was eighteen,” he says, “my father tried to murder me.” The next part is even harder. “Because I’m-- because he caught me getting fucked by some dude when I thought he was out of the state for the week,” Mickey says. Ian hisses in air between his teeth, a sharp angry sound, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Was my own fucking fault,” Mickey continues. His voice is unsteady and there’s nothing he can do to fix it. “I was an idiot. Careless. Got real good at walking around with one eye open, growing up in this neighborhood, with Terry. And when I got sloppy, I got caught.”

“No,” Ian’s voice sounds like someone’s got him around the windpipe. “It’s not, fuck, don’t blame--”

“I knew what would happen to me if he ever found out and I did it anyway. Can’t fix stupid, right?” Mickey laughs. Ian doesn’t. “Terry knocked us around all the time, just how it is. But that was- it was different.”

Mickey had known it was different as soon as Terry flew into the room. The guy, his name and his face irrelevant details that weren’t ever that important anyway, had bolted before Mickey had even gotten to his feet. After that it hadn’t mattered because Terry’s hands were around Mickey’s neck and his fist colliding with Mickey’s face. And there was something in the intent of his fists and the pure, boiling rage on his face and Mickey knew he wasn’t going to get out of this with just a few bruises.

Terry was screaming, a venomous stream matching the stream of blows to Mickey’s face. He didn’t register them. He didn’t have to. Something, some fight-or-flight impulse deep inside him, told him to at least try and fight back and he kicked out, his knee making contact with Terry’s stomach. Mickey had managed to get to his feet and took two steps towards the front door but something hard collided with his ribs, knocking the wind out of him and him to his knees. Baseball bat. No. Crowbar.

Terry had rolled him over, kicked him in the stomach, stomped on his wrist, raised the crowbar above his head. Blood was running into Mickey’s eyes and his mouth and he’d stared up at the crowbar in Terry’s fist through a swimming red haze. There wasn’t even any room in his head for panic, that had faded. Just a sick resolution that this was it, that he was about to die without any fucking pants on. He’d closed his eyes.

To the sharp, unmistakable sound of someone pulling back on a trigger.

Mickey realizes he’s been sitting in silence for a moment, and clears his throat. “I’m fucking lucky Mandy walked in when she did, and I’m fucking lucky she didn’t hesitate to pull a gun on him,” he says. “I actually thought she was gonna do it, too.”

Mandy’s face had been bone-white, her finger on the trigger steady and her eyes dark and mean. “Get the fuck away from him,” she said. Terry’s fist moved and Mickey remembered the crowbar thudding to the carpet a few inches from his head. “Back the fuck up,” Mandy said, her whole body tense, practically vibrating. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Back the fuck up.”

Terry had stepped back and Mandy had stepped forward, gesturing him onto the overstuffed couch. Mandy had stared at their father and her finger tightened, and through his blood drenched fear Mickey had been sure she was going to shoot him in the head. She told him later she’d come very, very close.

“Mandy got me up, shoved my pants at me and hauled me out the front door and we booked it down the street as fast as we could,” Mickey says. “I didn’t have any fucking shoes on. We ran four blocks before we realized we left without grabbing me any shoes. We stole a pair so we could get to the free clinic. I had a broken nose and three cracked ribs and a shattered wrist. But we were out. We got on a bus and we didn’t look back.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ian says. “Jesus. Mickey. He’s evil.” He spits the word out like it tastes bad. This strikes Mickey as funny for some reason. One little word carrying so much hatred. It sums Terry up. “What did you-- where’d you go?”

“Squatted with an aunt for a while til I got a job, rented the shittiest apartment ever. No money for furniture so we slept on the floor. Worked my ass off for a while so Mandy wouldn’t drop outta high school. She wanted to. One of us had to fucking graduate and it makes sense it was her. She said she’d graduate if I’d commit to actually being in a fucking band with her for real. So she did, and I did.”

“Of course,” Ian says. His voice sounds fond.

“And uh, she told me about the real shit Terry’d put her through. I didn’t know. If I had I would have shot him myself. And I, you know. Came out, or whatever. Told her I was gay.” Ian makes a noise Mickey doesn’t recognize. “What?”

“That’s the first time I’ve actually heard you say that,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mickey snaps.

“Nothing,” Ian says quickly. “Really.”

“Not all of us get to blurt out how we feel every fucking minute, you know,” Mickey says.

“You kinda just did,” Ian says.

Mickey feels lightheaded suddenly, effervescent, all the rot sunk in his stomach dislodged. “So, uh, get this--” he says and he feels like laughing but from something close to euphoria, not bitterness or irony. “Three months after we dipped, I came home from a long-ass shift to find Mandy sitting in the middle of a huge pile of stuff, our stuff from home. Clothes, her childhood toys, my fucking guitar.”

“She stole it?” Ian says in amazement.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah. She broke in when nobody was home and stole all our shit, and three thousand dollars, and three guns. I was so pissed, I started yelling, because there’s no way Terry’s gonna just let a few thousand bucks walk away and it wouldn’t be too hard for him to figure out who took it and where we were holed up. And Mandy looked at me and shrugged and said, ‘I know, that’s why I took the guns!’”

There’s a silence. Ian is staring at him and then he unexpectedly starts laughing. He laughs like he’s surprised he’s laughing. It’s immediately infectious. “Fuck--” he says. “Fuck, I shouldn’t-- fuck-- I’m sorry fuck--” He clamps a hand over his mouth but it doesn’t really help.

Mickey starts laughing too and it feels like it pours out of him, ridiculous and way too loud. Ian falls over backwards on the grass, clutching his stomach.

“I’m so sorry--” he gasps, “it’s not funny-- it’s not-- fuck-- I’m sorry--” he appears to be trying really hard to wrangle in his laughter, his face twisting in a way that makes Mickey laugh harder.

“Fucking Mandy--” Ian’s voice wavers a little as he struggles to get himself under control, and Mickey leans his face forward into his hand to muffle his laughter. Ian takes a couple of really deep breaths. “Jesus, that was rude,” he says. “Didn’t mean to piss myself laughing over--” his voice cracks, “fuck, I’m so sorry--”  Mickey feels another laugh bubble up in his throat.

“You’re a fucking dick,” he says. “You hear me?” Ian grins up at him, his shoulders still quivering as he tries to keep his laughter in.

Mickey lets himself drop backwards into the grass, which is a little wet but cool against the back of his neck. The clouds are nebulous and grey in the dark sky, blocking out the moon, which is barely a sliver of silver anyway. A car drives by on the street, momentarily breaking the stillness, but when it fades the only sound is the wind and Ian’s breathing in the grass next to him.  Mickey turns his head to find Ian’s watching him, his hands crossed behind his head.

“You sure my nose isn’t crooked now?” he asks.

“You that fucking vain?”

“Gotta stay better looking than Lip,” Ian says, and Mickey starts laughing again.

“You’re digging for compliments, Gallagher,” he snaps. He snaps everything. He doesn’t always mean to, it just happens. Ian smiles anyway; the corner of his mouth curls up.

Mickey feels light. He feels dizzy. He feels like he’s unloaded a big fucking weight that he’s been carrying around for ages, and probably a billion other ridiculous metaphors that he’s too tired and too overwhelmed to remember right now. Mostly, he can’t really believe Ian leapt into that fight and that he joined in, and he’s glad he’s not lying in the grass alone.

Ian is still looking at him, his eyes and his breathing soft. There isn’t any sound but the wind and the train, blurring together like white noise in the background, and no lights but the faint glow from the street, and nobody else around. There might as well be nobody else in the entire universe, just the wet grass and the grey-black and sky and the way Ian is looking at him.

Mickey props himself up on his elbow and he leans forward and kisses him, really slowly, really softly, resting his other hand on Ian’s shoulder. Ian’s fingers, a little wet from the grass and chilly, slide up to frame his face and he pulls Mickey closer, gently, until their hipbones are touching and Ian is lying between Mickey’s elbows.

Mickey likes the practical parts of being in a band; writing music, playing songs, the way the guitar feels in his hand and the fact that his and Mandy’s voices sound good together when they sing, that they can make something that sounds good. Mandy’s better at the on-stage stuff, smiling and being witty and making people want to buy t-shirts. People like to ask for her photo, buy her drinks, drunkenly get her autograph.

Mickey’s never minded that it’s her and not him. Mandy deserves all the attention and affection in the world, and he just writes the songs. Last week, someone asked Mickey to sign the case of the five dollar CD he’d bought for them and Mickey had been sure he was joking. Mandy’d tried to tell him he had been serious, but Mickey hadn’t believed her. It’s a ridiculous thought, really, someone wanting his chicken scratch all over a CD, even a crappy five dollar one bought in a bar.

But Ian Gallagher kisses him like he’s worth something, and for a moment, maybe, Mickey believes it.

* * *

 

When Mickey gets home Mandy is still up, standing on the porch smoking a cigarette. He thinks about just going to bed, as it is closer now to two in the morning than one, but he can’t. She’s standing with her elbows on the raining and her hair in a bun on the top of her head and she looks tired and pretty and a lot like what Mickey remembers of their mom and Mickey needs to say what he’s been wanting to say to her, so he calls her inside. Mandy crushes her cigarette on an ashtray on the kitchen table and smiles at him.

“What’s up?” she asks. “You’re home later than I thought you’d be. How was the bar thing?”

“Fine,” Mickey says. “It was fun. Listen, Mands. I want you to promise me something.”

Mandy shrugs. “Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”

“I want you to promise that you’ll be careful, okay?”

Her eyebrows go up. “Uh? You’re gonna have to be more specific, Mick.”

“When you’re with Svetlana I mean,” Mickey says. He means to continue but Mandy blanches, her face dropping into an expression that’s bordering on panic.

“How--” she says and her voice trails off.

“I saw you and her last week, outside the bar,” Mickey says.

“Shit,” Mandy says. She glances at him, then away, then back at him again. “Look, I-- I’ve been meaning to tell you, okay, I’ve been working up to it and I didn’t know how and--”

“Hey,” Mickey interrupts her. “Do you really think I’m gonna be mad at you for not telling me right away? Me? Really?”

Mandy glances back at him again and laughs a little. “Fair point,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “So I guess I like girls. I’m bisexual, or something. I don’t have it all figured out yet.” She lets the breath go and it comes out shaky. “Fuck, this shit is hard, I mean, I knew it was hard but I didn’t know how hard and here I am just telling you--”

“I’m not mad,” Mickey says. “It’s good, Mands. It’s okay.” He puts his hand on her shoulder, squeezes it, and Mandy suddenly steps forward and hugs him tight around the middle.

“Thanks,” she says into his chest. Mickey puts his arms around her shoulders and hugs her back. “Shithead.”

“I’m mostly relieved,” Mickey says. “I thought you were just cursed with terminally bad taste in dating, but Svetlana’s okay.”

“Just my taste in men, maybe,” Mandy snorts. “They’re the ones who seem to get me into trouble.”

“There other girls I didn’t know about?”

Mandy pinches him. “Not really. A few I’ve made out with at parties and stuff, which I guess I just tried to not think about. That’s what happened with me and Svetlana, except it turned out she liked me before that happened. I liked her too, it was just weird to think that.” She leans back to look up at him. “There’s a lot that I’ve been, I don’t know, sorting out. I wanted to wait to be sure that this was actually going somewhere, I guess.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” Mandy grins at him a little sheepishly. It’s a look Mickey hasn’t seen in a long time from her, not since they were kids. “I really like her.”

“I can tell,” Mickey says, because it’s true. Mandy smiles at him, her face practically shining with relief. Mickey remembers the way he felt when he finally told her, when it all came out. Like something huge and heavy was being pulled out of his chest. It’s still there, sometimes in the pit of his stomach and sometimes right up inside his throat and sometimes it’s everywhere, in every inch of him, a combination of fear and disgust and panic. But her acceptance meant he didn’t have to carry it all on his own. Mickey’s throat feels tight.

“It is kinda funny though,” Mandy says suddenly, chuckling to herself. “Two queer Milkoviches. It’ll make Terry’s day.”

“Mandy--” Mickey’s throat feels tighter. 

“Sorry,” Mandy says quickly. “That was a fucked up thing to say.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He draws back a little and drops his hands to her shoulders again. “That’s what-- I need you to promise. To be careful. I know Svetlana will be and I’ll keep one eye on you but people are shitheads. It’s easy to forget it now that we’re here and not there, but you can’t.”

“I know,” Mandy says quietly. The corners of her mouth drop down a little.

“I don’t mean to get all dramatic,” Mickey says, suddenly feeling a little bad. “And you can take care of yourself. But I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I love you too,” Mandy reaches up with her hand and grabs his, still on her shoulder, and holds it for a second. “We’ve got enough practice looking after ourselves and each other, I’m not gonna stop now.”

Mickey swallows around the lump in his throat, and lets her go to bed.

Before he falls asleep, he pulls out his phone and texts Svetlana: “i’m gonna tell you the same thing i tell everyone who dates my sister,” he types. “you fuck her up, i fuck you up.”

Svetlana responds almost immediately with a row of hearts, and Mickey falls asleep feeling not good exactly, not safe or comforted, but okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading! the update after this will be delayed for two weeks because i am going ON VACATION and probably will not get anything written (but the next update will be 2 chaps and finish out this section yaaay! so look forward to that)


	15. Part Three: v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He your boyfriend or your bodyguard?” Lip chuckles a little. Ian doesn’t laugh. He’s mad at Lip. Furious, even, but not in a hot and angry way that propels you to action and unintended headbutts. He mostly just feels sick, and tired, and hurt. He’s long been in the habit of not confronting this stuff head on, his family’s drama. It’s much easier to channel his anger or frustration elsewhere but he has to tell Lip how he feels and so he grits his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for some intense talk about mental illness, a brief mention of suicide, and lip gallagher being a dumbass. 
> 
> iangalager.tumblr.com

Mickey is awoken on Saturday morning by watered-down sunlight coming in through his window, Mandy giggling in the kitchen, and his phone alerting him to a text message. He doesn’t even have to look to know who it’s from. A photo: Ian with the sunrise behind his head, looking excited.

Mickey turns his phone around to snap a picture of his own middle finger, and hits send.

Maybe he should get a motorcycle, he thinks, and ride alongside Ian. He’d still probably jog circles around him. Horrible cheerful lanky fucker. His phone beeps.

“come over later,” the text message reads. “lip is bringing me WEED”

“when u put it that way how can i resist” Mickey texts back, and rolls out of bed to get breakfast. The amount of giggling coming from the kitchen indicates that Mandy is not alone and after a minute Mickey realizes that she probably invited Svetlana to stay over. This is probably a big deal, or something, and he thinks about drudging up something really witty and sarcastic to say to them but then decides he should probably just be nice. He abandons that thought when he comes into the kitchen to catch their conversation.

“I think you’re teasing me,” Mandy is saying.

“Am not! I wanna get you a present, want to make sure you like it.”

“I want one that vibrates,” Mandy says, and Mickey does a double-take. “I’d like that. If you use it on me.”

“Then we go buy you one, you will love it. Trust me.”

“Are you guys really having this conversation right now?” Mickey barks, entering the kitchen as loudly as possible to make them shut up. “I’m cool with you fucking my sister but that does not mean I wanna fucking hear about it. Or what you’re doing it with. Ever. Especially this early.”

“I tell you stuff all the time,” Svetlana says. She’s in pajamas, holding a cup of coffee in both hands with her elbows on the kitchen counter. Mandy is stacking plates into the sink.

“Yeah, but now that it’s my sister you’re not gonna, got it?” Svetlana rolls her eyes and Mandy grins at him as he pulls on his shoes. This past week Mandy has been the happiest Mickey remembers seeing her in a long time; she’s bubbly, effervescent, practically glowing. She’s been working up a storm, dragging Mickey into a couple impromptu practices to show off some admittedly very wonderful melodious parts for two of the songs he wrote the week before. She’s been wandering around the house singing to herself. She’s been cooking. Mickey eyes the french toast suspiciously, as Mandy isn’t a super great cook, but it seems alright. She might have even read a recipe first.

Her good humor is a little infectious, even. Mickey himself woke up in a great mood and Svetlanas banter hasn’t done anything to squash it.

Doesn’t mean he needs to hear about the details of his sister’s sex life, though.

This thought makes something else occur to him, and he grabs Svetlana’s arm. “There’s some stuff that stays private too, huh? Being girlfriend status with my sister doesn’t mean you get to tell her some of the shit I’ve told you.”

“What will you do if I tell?” Svetlana’s eyes twinkle. “You don’t scare me. A hundred thirty pounds of Ukrainian hot air, Milkovich.”

“Svetlana!”

“I joke!” She says. “Your secrets--” _and some of the thing I’ve given you advice on purchasing_ , her eyes say “-- are safe.”

“Wait, no, hey!” Mandy says. “What secrets?” Svetlana mimes zipping her mouth closed. “Do you know if he tops or bottoms?”

“Mandy!” Mickey smacks her shoulder, and Svetlana just smirks.

“You do and you’re not gonna tell me?” Mandy looks offended. “I have ways of making you talk, you know.”

“Greatest thing about dating musician,” Svetlana says. “Talented fingers.”

She winks.

Mickey leaves the apartment at a run.

* * *

 

Mandy and Svetlana watch him go, and Svetlana slurps her coffee then frowns. “He acting weird, or is just me?”

Mandy shakes her head. “Nope,” she says. Svetlana looks at her over the rim of her coffee mug. “I think he might be seeing someone.”

Svetlana snorts. “Yeah, right,” she says. “Mickey. Seeing someone. Shit’s pretty unlikely.”

“I’m not kidding!” Mandy protests. “I’ve got no idea who, but it’s the only thing I can think of that would possibly explain his weird ass behavior, unless someone swapped his brain out for a nicer one.”

“More likely,” Svetlana says cheekily, and Mandy smiles at her across the kitchen counter. Svetlana smiles back. Her hair is piled up on her head in a messy tail and she’s wearing one of Mandy’s t-shirts and fading cutoffs, and her eyeliner is a little smudged under her eyes. When she’d woken up, Mandy’s pillow had left a line on her cheek. She looks warm and sleepy and her smile is slow and a little mischievous, and Mandy feels like she’s falling over backwards, like she’s felt since she met her.

The fact that she likes girls is something Mandy has more or less known about since she was a teenager. It was just always easier and safer and a lot less complicated, to push it to the back of her mind and tell herself she’d worry about it later. It was never such an urgent thought that Mandy felt she needed to sort it out, and she’d been distracted enough with the boys she messed around with that it only bothered her on occasion. She’d known, distantly, she’d have to deal with it someday, but being fifteen years old and living in her father’s house wasn’t the right time. So she put it off.

Liking Svetlana wasn’t something she could put off. Liking Svetlana couldn’t be denied or shoved aside. And because Svetlana’s a girl, this year became as good a time as any to deal with it. It hadn’t been as hard to reconcile as Mandy had feared thanks to, in part, Ian, who didn’t know anything about liking girls but knew a great deal about offering very well-meaning and sincere advice while stoned.

Svetlana tucks a strand of hair behind her own ear and yawns, and Mandy feels overwhelmingly giddy and grateful and really fucking lucky. Svetlana doesn’t even have to do anything to make Mandy feel that way. She just has to stand there, in Mandy’s t-shirt, yawning.

“Is it Orange Boy?” Svetlana asks, and Mandy snaps back to the conversation.

“Ian? Mickey crushing on Ian?” Mandy stares at her for an entirely different reason. “I don’t know,” she says. “Jesus, what if it is? They do spend a lot of time together anymore.”

“Mickey likes tall men.”

“How do you know?”

“I can tell.” That Svetlana can tell this kind of thing about her brother when Mandy herself has never really noticed isn’t a surprise. Svetlana has a razor-sharp memory and an impressive eye for detail. She can swear and order drinks in four different languages, she can drink anybody under the table, she dances a little like she’s being electrocuted and she’s truly and legitimately scary when she’s angry. Mandy recently dug through her purse to find not pepper spray but a screwdriver.

Mandy had liked her, capital L liked her, probably from the moment they met. It just took a little while for her to realize it.

“You think so? You think Mickey’s been writing sappy pining songs for Ian?” A thought occurs to her. “Ian does get kinda puppy-eyed around him. I thought it was because Mickey scared the shit out him.”

“Mandy,” Svetlana sets down her coffee cup. “I think it’s possible. I also think maybe we stop talking about your brother now.” She leans across the counter, curls her hand around the side of Mandy’s face so her thumb brushes Mandy’s bottom lip, and smiles.

“Yeah, you got a point there,” Mandy says, and kisses her.

* * *

 

Ian’s apartment is, unusually, locked when Mickey arrives, and nobody answers the bell after a few rings. Mickey pulls out his phone, wondering if he’s been stood up. His second thought, a more worrying one, is if Ian is inside and won’t (or can’t) get up to get the door. His heart swims up into his throat, and Mickey starts bending down to peer at the lock, seeing if it’s one he can get open with a key or a credit card.

“You know, you outta try robbing people who actually have stuff you could sell,” Ian’s voice says behind him. Mickey jumps and straightens up fast but there isn’t any way that this doesn’t look suspicious. Ian is in his workout gear, ridiculously short shorts and an armband holding his phone, and he’s grinning. He’s teasing.

“Yeah, I’m definitely gonna plunder your vaults,” Mickey snaps, moving out of the way so Ian can unlock the door. He follows him inside, shuts the door behind them.

“You’re gonna what my what?”

“Plunder,” Mickey says. “Vaults.”

“Say it again, only slower,” Ian grins.

“I can’t take you seriously in those,” Mickey says.

Ian glances down. The shorts are orange and blue, and really, really short. “They’re comfortable,” he says. “You don’t like ‘em?”

“They’re two inches long.”

“So you do like ‘em?”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, freckles.”

Ian steps backwards towards the shower, sliding the strap holding his phone off his arm. “Well then,” he smirks in a way that Mickey likes, a lot, “come take them off.” And he goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower.

Mickey follows him, shrugging his shirt over his head as he goes. Ian is already in the shower and Mickey pauses to peer around the curtain at him.

"You want me to wash your hair or what?" He asks. 

"No," Ian grins at him through the shower's spray. "I want you to get in here so I can get you off." 

Hard to argue with that. Mickey slides his pants down and steps in and Ian, blocking the spray with his back, kisses him. His mouth is hot and insistent and his fingers dig into Mickey's hair. Mickey slides his hands up Ian's arms, trace his jawline and then down his chest. Ian looks good, hair dark with water and in his face and skin wet. Mickey slides his hand lower towards Ian's cock and Ian grabs his wrist and yanks it out of the way, grinding their hip together. 

"Did I say you could do that?" He asks. His smile is delighted. Mickey gawks at him. 

"Oh, is this how it's gonna be?" 

"Yeah," Ian says and he fists Mickey's cock and strokes just right, so Mickey's toes are probably curling. "You complaining?" 

"Guess not," Mickey gasps. 

* * *

“Get ready to taste defeat, Gallagher.”

“In your fucking dreams!”

“Your ass is grass,” Mickey’s thumb is positioned over the joystick and he grins at Ian, sitting next to him on the couch in a similar state of anticipation. “And I’m gonna mow it.”

“What the fuck does that even-- shit--”

Mickey jabs his thumb down and his Mario Kart character (Bowser, of course) speeds forward past Ian’s. Ian is good at a lot of things and Mario Kart is not one of them. Mickey wins, easily, pumping his fist in the air triumphantly.

“Best out of three?” Ian demands. He’s a bit of a sore loser, apparently.

“I’ll go easy on you.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

They’re sitting like this, concentrating on the screen side by side on Ian’s couch, wet hair, knees touching, when Ian’s brother opens the door. They’d stayed in the shower long enough for Mickey’s fingers to wrinkle and prune up, and when they’d gotten out Mickey had noticed the game, sitting unused in the cabinet by the television. Ian had tried to protest that he’d never played it because he really wasn’t good at it, but Mickey had dragged it out anyway. Ian has managed, for the first time, to pull ahead of Mickey when Lip comes in. He stops behind them, and when he speaks his voice is amused.

“Promise me you won’t sit on your asses playing Mario Kart while you smoke this,” he says. “This shit is too good to waste.”

“Nice to see you too,” Ian says, then shouts triumphantly. “Ha! Take that, Milkovich!”

“That was one round,” Mickey says. “One.”

“Who’s ass is grass?” Ian grins in his face before getting up and hopping over the back of the couch to clap Lip on the back.

“Yours, if you don’t share,” Lip deposits a paper bag on the kitchen table and winks.

“Yeah, whatever, go ahead,” Ian waves him on and Lip rolls himself a joint. He raises his eyebrows at Ian, then at Mickey. Ian shakes his head and sits back down on the couch again. Lip leans his arms on the back, handing a joint to Mickey, who accepts it and then the light Lip offers.

“What time are you meeting Fiona tomorrow morning?” He asks.

“Fucking early,” Ian says. “Eight or something. Did you get out of it?”

“I have to work, dick,” Lip says.

“Debs has an award ceremony for something at her school,” Ian explains. “You want to play again? I did say best out of three.”

“Alright, you’re on,” Mickey sets the joint on an ashtray and prepares to kick Ian’s butt again.

“So, uh,” A few minutes later, Lip is still leaning on the back of the couch watching them play. “You went to the doctor last week?”

“Yeah?” Ian’s fingers are mashing at the controller keys without much finesse and his eyes are focused on the screen. Mickey’s beating him easily: Ian is in fifth place and Mickey in second.

“You’re fucking terrible at this,” Mickey says, and Ian glances his way with a scowl that doesn’t actually look mean at all.

“I’d wipe your ass in a real drag race,” he says.

“Uh huh, whatever.”

“Ian,” Lip says. “So you did or not?”

“Yeah, I did,” Ian snaps, “Fuck you you fucking-- cocksucker! You piece of shit!” His car is spinning out of control and he drops even further back in the race.

“Kiss my ass!” Mickey shouts triumphantly.

Lip leans forward suddenly and snatches the controller out of Ian’s hands. Ian’s car sails off the road and explodes.

“What the fuck?” Ian turns around irritably. On screen, Mickey finishes the race and comes in first.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lip tosses the controller onto the couch and crosses his arms.

“What, that I went to the doctor? I go to the doctor like twice a month. Why are you being such a dick?”

“I found out from Carl,” Lip says. “Who didn’t tell me so much as he mentioned it assuming I knew.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Ian’s voice is audibly irritated.

“It’s kinda nice to know this shit.”

“You want me to, what? Submit my social calendar to you a month in advance so you can approve it?”

“Didn’t occur to you that I might like to go?” Lip snaps, and Ian’s jaw juts out. Mickey knows that look. It’s a fighting one.

“You wanted to come with me to the doctor,” he says. “Really. Well, unfortunately, you’re not my mother or my legal guardian and I don’t have to tell you a single fucking thing if I don’t want to.” He turns his back on his brother in a very final sort of way, and Mickey coughs and reaches across the couch to hand Ian the controller again, hoping turning on the game will disperse some of the tension or something. Ian’s jaw is still tight but he smiles at Mickey.

Behind them, Lip breathes out heavily through his nose, trying to get a grip on himself or something. “You gonna at least tell me what the doctor said?” he asks, and the smile drops off of Ian’s face again. He gets up and walks around the couch towards the kitchen and fills up a glass with water from the tap. Both Mickey and Lip watch him. Mickey’s getting the urge, an itching sensation in his knuckles, to get up and smack Lip in the face. Ian leans an elbow on the kitchen counter.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It was a routine thing. We decided to adjust my dosage a little but that’s all. It’s been making me feel a little lethargic.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ian snaps, and Mickey decides maybe it’s time to intervene. He gets up off the couch to stand roughly in between Ian and Lip, and crosses his arms.

“Maybe you continue this conversation another time, huh?” He says.

“You stay the fuck out of this,” Lip says. “Or better yet, why don’t you just go so my brother and I can talk about this.”

“Don’t think so,” Mickey says, and Ian’s eyes flicker over to his, containing unmistakable gratitude.

“Fuck, whatever,” Lip says, “I just mean, okay, that shit’s making you better right? You should be taking it, so what’s the problem? Why fuck around with it?”

Ian winces. His whole body winces in on itself: his shoulders draw in and his eyebrows come down and his mouth tightens and he seems to shrink in on himself a little, lose a few inches, lose a lot of his brightness.

“Mickey’s right,” he says, “I don’t wanna talk about this right now, Lip.”

“Ian--” Lip starts to say, then he seems to stop himself. “Whatever. What I get for trying to check in with you, I guess.”

“See that’s just--” Ian’s shoulders snap back and his face gets mean. It might, under other circumstances, be a turnon. Instead, Mickey feels something cagey and hot move around in his stomach and he really, really wants to deck Lip Gallagher right in his stupid smart mouth. “That’s why I don’t tell you this shit,” Ian continues. “Because you don’t get it, none of you do. Never mind that it’s something I discussed with a fucking doctor who actually knows what she’s talking about, no, Lip Gallagher doesn’t think it’s a good idea and since Lip Gallagher has a crazy brother Lip Gallagher knows best!”

“I’m just trying to be fucking involved--”

“I’m not a kid!” Ian shouts. It makes Mickey jump. “Or Monica!”

“This isn’t about Monica!”

“It’s always about Monica! I can’t think of myself without thinking of Monica and I know you can’t either.”

“Who’s--” Mickey tries to cut in.

“Our mother,” both Lip and Ian snap at him. It’s not a pleasant experience, being snapped at by two Gallaghers, so he shuts his mouth. Some of their rumored family history comes back to him too, the kind of shit you hear kids in the neighborhood spreading around like gossip. Mom took off for no reason when their oldest sister was a teenager. Nuts. Off her rocker. He doesn’t want to even think about what people say about him and Mandy, and Terry.

“This isn’t about which of us is right,” Lip continues. “It’s about you not telling me shit! I’m worried about you, shithead, hasn’t that crossed your mind? That the reason I’m up your ass is because I care?”

“That isn’t--”

“When have I ever let you down?” Lip demands. “Huh?”

“I can think of a few times,” Ian snaps back.

“Oh? Like the summer I spent doing community service while you continued on in ROTC because I got arrested while you got away?”

“It was your fucking idea--”

“Then the other half-dozen times I’ve busted my ass to keep you out of trouble! The fights I’ve gotten in for you, every time I’ve had your back against Frank, Fiona too? You want me to keep going? Prove that I care?”

“Yeah, keep proving me wrong, that’s really gonna help--”

Lip’s face is livid. Ian’s face is too. They don’t usually look a ton alike but something in their anger is nearly identical. Mickey wants to do something to stop this somehow, but he knows better than to step in the middle of it. “How about the fact,” Lip shouts, “that you took off without warning, without telling anybody where you were going, without thinking that we might care to know or that we might give a shit what you were going through. What about that? The month I spent tracking you down? That I had to haul you out of that fucking club cause you were strung out and wouldn’t listen, and drag you home? If that isn’t--”

Lip is interrupted by a loud, sharp sound and something explodes up the kitchen wall. Ian has seized the glass on the kitchen table and thrown it, hard, against the wall maybe three feet from Lip’s head. Glass flies everywhere, and Mickey jumps about a foot in the air and out of his skin. Lip ducks instinctively, then straightens.

Ian’s hand is still outstretched in front of him and his eyes are closed and he’s breathing hard, a spiderweb of veins visible in his temple and the tendons in his neck sharp and defined. His shoulders are so rigid they seem to be shaking.

“You didn’t just--” he says, his voice unrecognizable. “You-- I haven’t told--”

“Shit,” Lip gasps, “Shit, shit, shit, I-- fuck-- you almost fucking hit me! Jesus, you’re scary-- I didn’t mean-- Ian--”

“Just go.” Ian’s eyes are still closed. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, or whenever, just. Go.” Lip’s mouth opens, and Mickey feels like someone has kicked him into action. He steps forward.

“You heard him,” he says. Lip, somehow, doesn’t even argue. He turns and walks out the door, and Ian doesn’t move until it clicks shut behind him. Then, his hand drops.

“Fuck,” he whispers and he drags his hand over his face. He doesn’t look at Mickey and he looks aged somehow, exhausted. Mickey doesn’t have any idea what Lip meant, really, but he’s sure that he crossed a line, that he surprised himself by saying it, that this is something secret Ian hadn’t wanted him to know and that it, in turn, pushed Ian over the edge. He feels weird, almost sick to his stomach.

“Gallagher--” he says, not really knowing how the sentence will end.

“Gotta clean this shit up,” Ian mutters and he crosses the room towards the broken glass, still not looking at Mickey. “There’s glass everywhere.”

“I’ll get you a rag,” Mickey says and steps towards the kitchen sink.

“Watch your feet.” Ian is picking up shards of glass from the carpet, his shoulders bent, sloping down to shield his face. Mickey does, stepping carefully, then opens a few drawers until he finds one stacked with clean dish towels. He grabs two to mop up the water, then comes back around towards Ian. He’s so intent on looking at where he’s putting his feet that he doesn’t see what happens but he does hear Ian swear and when he looks up Ian is clutching his left hand with his right, and when he pulls his hand back his fingertips come away bloody.

“Fucking cut myself,” he grits, “fuck--”

“Shit--” Mickey grabs him by his right elbow to pull him to his feet. His heart is hammering. It’s not the sight of blood that’s making his stomach twist (he’s pretty familiar with it and he’s got a strong stomach) but the fact that it’s the sight of Ian’s blood. “You okay?” The cut is right across the palm of Ian’s left hand. It’s deep, bleeding freely. “Gallagher, that looks bad.”

“Wasn’t paying any fucking attention--Mickey, you gotta go get Lip. He can’t have gone far. There’s an urgent care place a few blocks away.” Ian grabs the dishrag and presses it against the cut, and Mickey heads out the front door.

Lip hasn’t even walked across the street to where his car is parked so he turns around when Mickey shouts his name, his face pissed as hell.

“What?” He barks.

“Ian cut himself, you’re gonna have to drive him to the doctor,” Mickey jogs down a few steps. Lip’s face blanches. “No-- shit! He got cut, picking up the glass, don’t freak out!”

The door opens behind them and Ian starts down the steps with the dish towel held hard against his hand. There’s blood smudged on his t-shirt and he’s grimacing. They slide into the back seat of Lip’s car, side by side, and Mickey clamps his fingers around Ian’s hand to help hold the towel in place. Ian holds onto his elbow as Lip drives the few blocks to the clinic, a physical intimacy Mickey would have shaken off as little as a week ago. Maybe even yesterday. He doesn’t mind.

* * *

 

Ian gets four stitches and a huge white bandage slapped over his left hand. The clinic is crowded so it takes them forever to leave and when they finally do Ian has a headache, Mickey’s scowl seems to be permanently painted on his face and Lip’s hair is standing on end from him tugging on it.

Lip starts to steer them back in the direction of Ian’s house when Mickey speaks up unexpectedly from the back seat of the car. “Swing us by my place,” he says. Ian blinks.

“Why?”

“You don’t wanna be there with that mess, do you?” Mickey says. “Mandy’s out, so crash at mine.”

“Whatever,” Lip says and turns, following Mickey’s directions. Ian stares at Mickey’s face outlined in the rear-view mirror. He had been, almost at that very moment, dreading going back to his apartment and the broken glass all over the floor. He’ll have to clean it up eventually but he feels like the energy’s been sucked out of him through the cut in his hand. And somehow Mickey knew, or guessed, or picked this up.

Lip stops the car on the curb in front of the Milkovich’s apartment and leaves the engine running. Ian leans over and turns the keys so the engine shuts off and when Lip raises his eyebrows Ian shoots a stony face back.

“I’ll, uh,” Mickey unbuckles his seatbelt. “Go have a smoke.”

“Yeah,” Lip says darkly. “You do that.”

“Or maybe I won’t,” Mickey counters. Something in his voice sounds like he’s digging his heels in and Ian feels a wave of affection for him. He’d sat in between him and Lip in the clinic waiting room with a mean expression on his face, glaring at the mother of a crying baby sitting across from them and at his shoes and at Lip (who glared back) and at the wall, and Ian had been absurdly fond of him then for sticking with him. Anyone with sense would probably have run. Mickey digs in his heels.

“It’s okay,” Ian says slowly. “I need to tell Lip something.”

“I’m gonna stand right out here and smoke,” Mickey says darkly, and gets out of the car. He leans against passenger side door and lights a cigarette. After a minute, he glances back and when Ian waves him off he walks up the stairs to his front door.

“He your boyfriend or your bodyguard?” Lip chuckles a little. Ian doesn’t laugh. He’s mad at Lip. Furious, even, but not in a hot and angry way that propels you to action and unintended headbutts. He mostly just feels sick, and tired, and hurt. He’s long been in the habit of not confronting this stuff head on, his family’s drama. It’s much easier to channel his anger or frustration elsewhere but he has to tell Lip how he feels and so he grits his teeth.

“You almost hit me, you know,” Lip says. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“If I’d wanted to hit you, I would have.”

"I didn't mean to say it," Lip says, "it just slipped out, it was a dumbass thing to say but I didn't mean to." 

“"I haven't fucking told him!" Ian takes a deep breath. "I haven’t fucking told Mickey any of that and you had to just blurt it out like it was no big deal, Lip! It's not just a dumbass thing to say, it was the worst two months of my entire fucking life! I thought you knew that, I thought you understood but you just pulled the fucking trigger on it.” Lip doesn’t say anything or look at him but Ian can tell he has his attention. He can tell Lip knows he fucked up, and doesn’t know what to say to fix it. He doesn’t care that his brother feels bad.

“You don’t get to do that,” Ian says. “You don’t get to use that. What happened last summer. You hear me?”

“I don’t know what you--”

“Anything else, any of the other crap we’ve put each other through or the scrapes you’ve pulled me out of, all the rest of it, I don’t care. But not that. Everything else makes fits into our scorecard of which of us is a better brother and which funny stories we can tell Fiona’s kids in fifteen years or whatever, I don’t care that they do, I do it too. But not that. It’s not something you get to hold over my head, you understand? It’s never gonna be funny. No matter how far away I get from it, it just won’t.”

“Yeah,” Lip says slowly. “Okay.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. I fucked up, I know I did. Knew it the minute I said it.”

This makes Ian blink. Lip so very rarely admits that he’s wrong that it’s surprising to hear the words come out of his mouth. It’s not really an apology, it doesn’t really resolve anything, but that’s okay. He nods, and they stare out the windshield for a minute. It’s only a little past noon but it feels much later.

“I’m sorry I threw the glass at you,” Ian says. “Sometimes I just--”

“You didn’t hit me. No harm, no foul.” Lip glances over at him finally. “You really like this guy, don’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“The fact that you want him to know any of this shit about you at all,” Lip says. “No, it’s a good thing. It’s good.”

“You think so?”

“You want it spelled out for you?” Lip snorts. “You’re fucking smitten.”

“Fuck off,” Ian tries to bite back his grin but can’t.

 

* * *

 

The two flights of stairs from the street to Mickey’s apartment feel impossibly long and steep and Ian drags himself up them one step at a time. Mickey’s sitting on the touch and the television is on, so Ian sits on the couch too, in the corner. Other than the television, the apartment is quiet. His head hurts. So does his hand. His whole body does, really. It feels wrung out, like it’s been repeatedly stretched and shoved back into shape without any care or attention. If he had his way, Ian would probably sleep for the next month until this day is completely forgotten.

“He apologize?” Mickey’s voice snaps into his thoughts. One leg is crossed over the other and his foot is jiggling up and down in time to the jingle playing on the TV. Mickey’s eyebrows are drawn together, his face concentrated and almost angry.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “It’s-- well. Yeah.” He and Lip will probably have another fight about it tomorrow. It’s a fight Ian feels like they’ve been having for a year; they keep butting up against it and then backing away again. The thought makes him feel unbelievably exhausted. “You can-- I mean-- I can take off. I won’t waste any more of your day.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snaps. It comes with the weird realization that Ian is beginning to be able to differentiate between Mickey’s real, genuine anger and the way he talks when he’s saying something that makes him feel uncomfortable. Affection, Ian’s brain supplies hopefully, which isn’t something Mickey Milkovich has a lot of practice at or patience for. So his voice comes out in a bite, sometimes in a growl, and Ian is beginning to pick up on when that bite isn’t actually directed at him at all. He likes that thought, so he tucks it away to mull it over later.

“I didn’t mean for you to get sucked into my family bullshit,” Ian says quietly. “Nobody should have to overhear that crap. Extra special Gallagher kind of tough love.”

“You did headbutt someone for me last week,” Mickey says dryly, and Ian can’t help but grin even though he really shouldn’t have, even though it was a terrible impulsive action born out out of a lot of pent-up anger and a particularly jumpy manic mood. “I owe you one, or twenty maybe. Want me to kick the shit out of your brother? Cause I will, just say the word.”

“Restrain yourself,” Ian can’t help but laugh. “Violence is not the answer here.”

“Whatever you say, Gandhi.” Mickey’s mouth is serious but his eyes are light. He rubs at his thumb with the corner of his mouth and Ian can feel him struggling with some words, putting them together. The practice of telling people their thoughts doesn’t come easy to either of them. “I should have grabbed the weed. Mind if I smoke?”

That probably isn’t what Mickey’s considering saying, but Ian nods. Mickey pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Ian watching Mickey drag on the cigarette, and then Mickey clears his throat.

“So you said,” he says, and Ian focuses his attention on his face. Mickey isn’t looking at him. His gaze is fixed on his own hands. “You said you were waiting to tell me some shit. About you running away? Working in a club?”

“You caught that,” Ian winces.

“Yeah, Einsten, I did.” His fingers drum on his knee. “You can tell me, though. If you wanna.”

Ian blinks. “Thought you,” he frowns, trying to remember Mickey’s wording, “didn’t want any of my Disney movie bullshit. When did that change?”

“Well excuse me for being nice,” Mickey barks, and Ian’s heart sinks.

“No, sorry--” he says as fast as he can, “that was supposed to be funny--”

“You don’t have to, it’s fine. Whatever. Like I care.” Back on the defensive again, just like that.

“I do, okay, I just--” Something, the tone of his voice maybe, makes Mickey snap his mouth shut. Ian feels inexplicably and overwhelmly nervous all of a sudden; he rubs his palms on his knees before remembering the great big stitches in his hand. It’s not like this is some huge secret he’s been hiding for years. It seems all he’s been doing since it happened is explaining it, to his family and doctors and his fucking therapist, trying to justify his actions to them even though he can’t justify them to himself. But he doesn’t want Mickey to think any less of him. He doesn’t want Mickey to think he’s crazy. He takes a deep breath, and he blurts.

“I’ve been meaning to, okay, I have, but there isn’t really a ever fantastic time to say ‘I flipped out and ran away from home and became a stripper,’ especially to someone you’re sleeping with.”

He winces, and gives himself a mental high five for presenting that in the worst possible way. Nice going, Ian, you really made that as excruciating as possible. Thanks, Ian.

“Really?” Mickey says.

“Yeah.”

“When? What happened? Is that what Lip meant?” Mickey’s eyes are glued to Ian’s face.

“Last summer, when I got sent home. The military wasn’t what I thought it was gonna be like at all, boot camp especially, and I’d be bipolar if I hadn’t joined up but the pressure made, oh, I don’t know, something slip. I had it under control more or less until last winter and, well. Someone people I knew, serving with me, their tank drove over a landmine and they got blown sky high. Friends of mine. It was really horrible and I was just so angry all the time for like two months, always on the edge of a temper tantrum. Violent. And then in late spring, I crashed, I got real down. Couldn’t make myself get out of bed, which of course you can’t do when you’re in the army.”

It had begun before then, but Ian doesn’t really feel the need to elaborate on all the instances in his teenage years that, looking back, he can pinpoint as being on one end of the pendulum or the other. At the time he hadn’t known anything was wrong, had thought it was something everyone else went through now and then. But it had gotten bad, out of control and scary bad, last spring. Ian had begun to wonder before then, just a little, especially for the month or two where he was so filled with energy and excitement that he’d get up and run two miles before everyone else got up to run five. A little like your mother, he’d thought once or twice, and then had made himself not think it again until much later and there wasn’t a way to escape it.

“So they booted you,” Mickey says.

“Shipped me back home with a diagnosis and a doctor’s appointment,” Ian says. “And I spiraled, wouldn’t get help, wouldn’t listen to anyone, vanished when they tried to make me. Ran from it. Worked at the seediest club ever, got paid more in drugs than in money, slept on stranger’s couches for a month and a half until Lip tracked me down. Two weeks later I crashed real hard.”

“Were you okay?”

Ian laughs and it’s shaky. “No,” he says honestly, which is a strange feeling because he’s so often lying to other people about how he’s feeling because it’s easier than trying to explain. “It was the worst I’ve ever felt in my entire life. After that I got it, you know, why you might want to off yourself. I never did, never even came close, but I understood it. Mostly, it would have been way too much work.” Ian’s tongue feels like it’s running on its own accord now, spewing out this story.

“Shit, Ian,” Mickey says quietly, and Ian’s heart jumps the way it always does when Mickey calls him by his first name.

“My family dragged me to a doctor and got me stable enough that I could get out of bed without feeling like I wanted to die, and that was it. I decided I had to own up to it. Lip’s got a reason to be suspicious after that.” He takes a deep breath, stuffs the joint into his mouth to cover up the fact that his hands feel like they’re shaking. He’d been hoping his tone would come out flippant but he probably just looks and sounds hysterical.

“Bullshit,” Mickey says. “Your fucking brother, that’s bullshit. What he said, bullshit. You didn’t ask for that to happen, it ain’t your fault. Can’t say I know a damn thing about being bipolar but it’s your fucking life.”

Ian is suddenly and almost violently grateful for Mickey’s presence and his biting anger on Ian’s behalf and his eyebrows almost touching each other over the bridge of his nose and his little callused hands and his way with words. It takes him aback a little it’s so intense.

“Your fucking family should understand,” Mickey insists.

“I think they try. But they get worried,” he says. “I can’t fucking blame them after Monica--” he surprises himself when his voice gets unsteady so he stops. “They care about me,” he continues, “they just don’t do it very delicately. It’s not really in our nature.” Mickey snorts at that. “I try not to be mad at them but sometimes I can’t help it.

“None of them were thrilled about me joining the army to begin with,” he continues. “Not that they didn’t support me, they did, but I don’t think they ever really understood. And then they didn’t expect me to come home all fucked up either. I used to always have my shit together, you know, had a goal. Then I got what I wanted and it all just fell apart.”

There’s more to that, this feeling that Ian doesn’t even know if he has words for and doesn’t know if he could manage to say them even if he did. How ‘bipolar’ had always meant ‘Monica cutting her wrists in the bathroom on Thanksgiving.’ More than that. It had been the justification they repeated for why their mother flitted in and out of their lives and never called or wrote or seemed to care. Our dad’s an alcoholic. Mom’s bipolar.

Ian doesn’t say this out loud and he’s not sure he has to, really. He thinks that out of everyone he knows, Mickey understands most the fear of ending up like your parents.

“You met me at a fucking weird time,” Ian says, because he’s been thinking about this too, how he has no idea if he’d have gotten along with Mickey if he’d met him at any other point in his life. He’s running his mouth, he knows he is, but Mickey hasn’t told him to shut up. He’s just watching him with the same concentrated expression on his face, letting him go. It’s like blowing off steam. Ian thinks about Mickey in the grass the other night, dredging up these words to share with him, and how special and important he’d felt that he’d been the person hearing that story. This isn’t that kind of story, it’s not something heavy and horrible that’s taken root in his soul. It’s just the ridiculousness of never really knowing where he stands.

“Sometimes I feel like an entirely different person and sometimes I feel like I’m sixteen again and none of this ever happened, and sometimes I can’t even understand why I took off and sometimes I want to do it again. I’m not crazy--” his voice really does break and it’s so ridiculous that he knows he’ll laugh about it later. “I’m just-- getting better. Probably will be for a while.”

“Ain’t we all?” Mickey says finally. Ian stares at him. Mickey’s staring at his knee, pulling at a loose thread with his finger. “Everyone’s shit is different, but that’s what we’re all doing. Trying to find a way to live with it.” He shrugs, his shoulders curling in like they’re protecting him, like by getting smaller his words won’t be heard by anyone else. “People do all kinds of crazy shit in the process, flip out, whatever you want to call it.”

“Like forming a band?” Ian stretches his leg along the couch to poke at Mickey’s knee with his foot. Mickey’s face cracks into a smile.

“Or going jogging and liking it, which is still unbelievably fucked up.” Mickey shoves his foot off the couch and glances up to meet his eyes. “That does solve the mystery of why your running shorts are so short.”

“What?” It takes Ian a second to realize what he means. “No! Those are real running shorts, I got them from a running store. The ones I wore in the club were sparklier.” Mickey raises his eyebrows. “I’ll break ‘em out on Halloween. Or Pride, maybe.”

“Jesus Christ, make sure you give me some warning beforehand. I think I need to be prepared for that sight,” Mickey sighs, but his eyes give him  away. They smile at each other from opposite ends of the couch for a minute. Mickey’s phone beeps, breaking the silence.

“It’s Mandy--” he says. “She’s not coming home til late.”

“She mad you skipped band practice?”

“Probably not, she’s been pretty chipper now that she’s regularly getting some.”

“You could practice anyway,” Ian says mischievously. Mickey glances up at his phone and makes a face. “You could play me something.”

“No Britney Spears.” Mickey snaps.

“Teenage Dream?”

“What did I just say to you?"

“Different pop star, c’mon, get with the program.”

Mickey’s guitar is sitting in a corner of the room and he stomps over to get it, slides the strap over his shoulder and props it up on his knee as he sits down again. Ian grins; he hadn’t thought Mickey would actually go for it. Mickey checks the tuning on the guitar and chews on his lip for a second before he starts to play. Ian has a moment to think he likes how the guitar sits in Mickey’s hands and how clever his fingers look on the strings before he recognizes the song.

“No!” He snaps. “No! Not what I meant!”

“Don’t you have, like, Gallagher family pride?”

“Not when it comes to Oasis, no!”

“ _Mayyyybeeee you’re gonna be the one that saves meeee_ ,” Mickey wails as unpleasantly as possible, and Ian lunges across the couch to grapple for his hands and make him stop.

“No Wonderwall!” Ian bellows.

“If you damage my guitar I’ll end you!” Mickey shouts back, wriggling out of the way. “Okay! Okay. No more Oasis. Sit your ass down, sit over there. Sit.” Ian does, crosses his arms. Mickey chews his lip for a second and his eyes dart from Ian to the guitar to his hands to Ian again. “Okay,” he says, mostly to himself.

He strums the guitar, starts playing a few chords and Ian is struck by how talented he is, how handsome and fierce his face looks when he’s concentrating on his fingers moving up the neck of the guitar. And then Mickey closes his eyes and starts singing, and Ian recognizes the song, and he feels somehow both unbelievably happy and out of his depth.

“ _This is the first day of my life_ ,”  Mickey sings, with his eyes closed. “ _Swear I was born right in the doorway_.”

This song, and Mickey’s voice forming the words and this moment, the two of them sitting across from each other on the couch, this moment is just his and nobody else’s. Ian doesn’t want to jinx it by dragging his attention away from Mickey’s singing for a single second to think about what it means. It does mean something, it’s Mickey’s way of saying something that he can’t really say any other way and Ian might have suggested it as a joke but it’s not. It’s real. But he doesn’t think this because he wants to be sure he takes in every detail of the slant of Mickey’s eyebrows and his collarbones visible under the collar of his shirt and how is hair is combed back and how his eyelashes sit on his cheeks.

“ _I’d rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery_ ,” Mickey sings, then he finishes the song and opens his eyes.

“What?” He says, his voice defensive. “The fuck you looking at me like that for--”

Ian cuts him off by leaning forward and kissing him. Mickey kisses him back, the guitar jangling a little as it’s smashed up between them. Mickey pushes him back far enough that he’s able to slide the instrument onto the floor out of the way, then pulls Ian back down to him again, his hand curling around the back of his neck, his body a line of heat down Ian’s side. Ian presses forward, wants to be as close to him as possible, but puts pressure on his injured hand as he does so and curses into Mickey’s mouth.

“Dumbass,” Mickey says fondly, and he pushes Ian up and back so he’s sitting mostly upright on the couch again, then pulls himself forward. He grins a little wickedly. It’s an expression Ian likes on him a lot, one he wants to keep just to himself forever. Mickey kisses him, then his lips ghost over Ian’s jaw, barely brushing the skin. It’s maddening. Ian has always liked kissing, like the little things that build up to sex, almost more than he likes the sex itself. It’s not something they’ve really done as he’s always gotten the impression Mickey thinks it’s largely a waste of time. But now Mickey’s lips are on his neck and now he’s kissing him, softy, and now he’s sliding his leg over Ian’s leg so he’s straddling him. Ian gasps. Mickey smirks like he knows exactly what he’s done, like he knows exactly how the pressure of his thighs on either side of Ian’s legs feel and the heat from his body and his fingers on Ian’s neck.

“You wanna--” Ian pulls back a little, nods his head in the direction of Mickey’s bedroom.

“What, Gallagher?” Mickey kisses him again and almost lazily unbuttons the first button on Ian’s shirt. “You in a hurry? Going somewhere?”

Ian looks at him, and Mickey smiles down at him, not a smirk but a real smile. It's small and looks a little rusty and Ian memorizes it, along with the softness and heat in Mickey's eyes. He wants to say something important, something meaningful. You didn't run away, he wants to say. You're sticking with me. You held my fucking hand in the car and didn't jerk away. You just sang me that song and it means all the things neither of us are any good at saying out loud. 

“No,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to issue a disclaimer or something idk that a lot of ian's feelings on his mental health and how that coincides with his relationship with his family come from my experiences with both those things. i'm not just pulling them out of my ass.
> 
> OH i also made a playlist for this fic the other day, so if you want to listen to some music while you read here's that: http://8tracks.com/misandrywitch/your-name-like-a-song. :)


	16. Part Three: vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey wakes up the next morning with Ian’s knee in his lower back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iangalager.tumblr.com

Mickey wakes up the next morning with Ian’s knee in his lower back.

Apparently, a side-effect of being tall and lanky is that you sprawl out everywhere when you’re sleeping. Ian sleeps like a starfish, legs and arms askew. His knee is in Mickey’s lower back and his left arm is draped over Mickey’s chest and one foot is dangling out of the covers and off the bed. His eyes are still closed and his breathing is slow and even. Mickey twists around so Ian’s knee is in his stomach instead of his back, and studies him for a minute, because he can. He looks at the line of Ian’s shoulders, soft and relaxed, and the hair at the nape of his neck, and the scattering of freckles on his ribcage and the way his mouth turns down just a little when he’s sleeping, and he feels an unpleasant and unexpected tightness in his throat.

Ian shifts a little so his knee dig even harder into Mickey’s stomach, which doesn’t make the feeling go away exactly but also reminds him of another fact. Ian Gallagher is annoying. Mickey flicks Ian’s kneecap with one fingernail.

“Yo,” he says, but without any venom. “Budge over. You’re a goddamned ginger octopus.”

Ian opens one eye, the other obscured by Mickey’s extra pillow, but slides his knee away. “You snore,” he says, his voice muffled and sleepy.

“You almost kicked me outta my own bed!”

“You gonna make me leave?” Ian smirks. Even his smirk is slow and sleepy.

“Asshole,” Mickey stretches his arms up above his head. “No.” Ian’s smirk melts into a real smile and he closes his eyes again, moving around so the rest of his body is under the blanket. His hair is sticking up everywhere and Mickey wants to push the strands back out of his face and so he does because there’s nothing there to stop him.

He kisses Ian too, because there’s nothing to stop him from doing that either, sliding his hand up to frame his face. His thumb lands on Ian’s chin, traces the line of morning stubble along his jaw. Ian kisses him back, open-mouthed and warm and slow. He has bad breath. That’s something no movie tells you about sharing a bed with someone, no warning about morning breath or wriggly limbs in the middle of the night or blanket stealing. Mickey doesn’t care.

“What time is it?” Ian mumbles into Mickey’s mouth.

“Fucking early,” Mickey says. “Seven or something.”

“Shit!” Ian pops upright, throwing the covers off both of them in the process. Mickey scowls at him. “I have to meet Debs and Fiona at eight, Mickey!” Ian hops up out of bed and starts rummaging around on the floor for his clothing. “It’ll take me forever to get across town and I can’t be late-- I thought I set an alarm-- where the hell is my phone-- didn’t I say anything to you? I did, right?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, somewhat guiltily. It is coming back to him now. “But it was right before we fucked so I guess I had other things on my mind.” Ian, who had been bent over looking under Mickey’s bed, straightens up and raises his eyebrows. “Don’t know what you expected,” Mickey shrugs. “Your phone’s over here.” He tosses it to Ian, who is pulling on his boxers.

“Where the fuck are my pants?” Ian asks, turning in a circle.

“Dunno. You can’t ditch your family thing and have breakfast?” Mickey knows what the answer is but he asks it anyway.

“It’s for Debs,” Ian says. “How’d my shirt get over there? I have to be there, I promised her I would. She’ll skin me if I don’t show. Where are my pants?”

“Living room probably?”

“Can you go find them? I gotta comb my hair and I don’t think you want Mandy to see me running around in my underwear.”

“Mandy is not awake,” Mickey says, “it’s seven in the morning.” But he slides out of bed and yanks on a relatively clean pair of boxers.

Ian’s jeans are in the living room, trapped between two of the cushions on the couch. Mickey picks them up and puts water on for coffee,. He turns back to the bedroom to hand Ian the pants.

“You gonna make it?” Mickey asks, as Ian wiggles into his pants. Wiggles into them because they’re pretty tight and he’s got long legs and he’s only really got the use of one hand. Mickey stares and he can tell Ian knows he’s staring; he can’t help himself. Ian grins at him and bites the corner of his lip.

“If I run to the bus, yeah,” he says.

“How’s your hand?”

“It’s okay,” Ian shrugs, flexing it. “Hurts a little. Not looking forward to explaining to Fiona how I sliced it open.”

“Can I at least make you a cup of coffee?” Mickey asks.

“Nah, I’ll get one when I meet them,” Ian shrugs on his jacket, still hanging over one of the kitchen chairs. “Oh, hey Mands!”

“Why the hell are you making so much noise?” Mandy, wearing a big t-shirt and bedhead, has opened her bedroom door and wanders into the kitchen, yawning. “It’s before nine-- who are you and what have you done with my brother? Hi Ian, what are you doing here? Aren’t you going to Debbie’s thing? What did you do to your hand?”

“Cut it on a bottle, yesterday. Four stitches!” Ian says, shoving one sneaker on with his heel while grappling with the laces of the other.

“Ow,” Mandy pouts in sympathy. “You work tonight?” She starts pulling mugs out of the cabinet. She pours a cup of coffee for herself and one for Mickey. Mickey adds sugar.

“Nope, just busy with this stuff til three or something. You guys?”

“Til five,” Mickey says. He knows he shouldn’t feel annoyed with Mandy because they did wake her up, but he still does. He wanted to-- well-- stay in bed all day. Kiss Ian goodbye.

“Come over later and we’ll watch a movie or something,” Mandy says. “Yeah?”

“Sounds good!” Ian finishes tying his shoe and stands. “Sorry guys, I gotta dash. I’ll text you,” he says to the room but meets Mickey’s eyes and Mickey’s throat gets weird and tight again. “I’ll swing by when I’m done if you’ll be home, Mands! Get a good horror movie or something.”

“See ya,” Mandy waves at him over the rim of her coffee cup and yawns.

Ian opens the door, shoving his phone into his back pocket and before his back is all the way turned on them Mickey suddenly and unexpectedly makes up his mind. He isn’t even debating it, it rises in his mind suddenly and unexpectedly, like a flood that propels him forward. He sets his coffee cup down and bridges the gap between himself and the door in a few steps and grabs Ian by the shoulder, pulling him around to face him.

“I’m gonna be late--” Ian says but Mickey cuts him off because he reaches up to slide his hand around the back of Ian’s head through his still slightly-damp hair and leans forward and up a little on his toes, and kisses him.

Ian starts a little in surprise, then his hand lands on Mickey’s shoulder and he kisses Mickey back, gently. Mickey has never understood kissing for the sake of kissing if it doesn’t go on to lead to sex until he understood the press of Ian’s mouth to his and the way Ian’s chin bumps up a little against his chin and how Ian’s fingers feel against the bare skin of his shoulder. It isn’t going anywhere or demanding anything, it’s just them in this moment, together, kissing. It just is.

He pulls back. Ian is staring at him, his face a little pink and his eyes bright and his mouth curving into a smile, and he is probably the most beautiful thing Mickey has ever seen in his life.

“Go on,” Mickey says. “You’re gonna be late.”

“You’re an asshole,” Ian says. “See you later.” And he turns and practically jogs off down the hallway.

Mickey shuts the door and turns around, slowly. Mandy is staring at him with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth and her eyes are about the size of dinner plates.

“Mandy--” Mickey holds up a hand, “don’t--”

“I knew it,” Mandy whispers.

“Uh huh,” Mickey says skeptically.

“I did! We were right!” Mandy’s voice practically doubles in volume. “No offense but neither of you are very subtle and Ian does that puppy dog eye thing and you-- well-- I do read all your song lyrics you know--”

“Jesus!” Mickey shouts over her. “Cool it!" 

“I knew it!” Mandy shrieks. Mickey races back across the room to grab her coffee cup from her before she lets it fly.

“If you gloat too much your face will get stuck like that,” Mickey says. Mandy grabs the coffee cup back and grins an enormous shit-eating grin. “I’m going back to bed,” Mickey tells her. “You are gonna chill. Yeah? Chill.” He grabs his coffee cup and backs away, leaving Mandy to grin to herself in the kitchen.

Mickey sleeps for another two hours, heads to work while dodging Mandy’s poignant eyebrow wriggling from the couch, and checks his phone on the bus.

“MADE IT [thumbs up emoji],” says Ian’s text.

“glad u arent getting skinned by ur sister,” Mickey responds then, after a second, adds, “i might miss u a little”

“last night was nice,” Ian sends back. Mickey goes to work smiling.

* * *

 

“So… you and my brother, huh? That’s-- something.”

“Don’t look so smug, or whatever that is. It’s-- it is something. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that. How long has this been going on?”

“Couple weeks. It wasn’t serious or anything, at first.”

“Is it now?”

“Yeah, I think so. I hope so. I don’t know. Don’t smack me! I know you’re excited but I’m injured here!”

“You let me know if he’s a dick to you, alright? I’ll kick his ass.”

“Is that what he said to Svetlana?”

“Probably. Still true.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

 

Mickey gets home from work around 5:30 and finds the lights and television in his apartment on, and Ian and Mandy sound asleep in a pile on the couch. Ian is sleeping on his back with his mouth open, and Mandy is draped on top of him, her head on his chest and her arm dangling off the couch to brush the floor. The entire couch has been monopolized by their nap.

“Yo,” Mickey pokes Mandy with his foot. “You wanna budge up so you can share, huh?”

“Not really,” Mandy says with her eyes closed. Ian yawns.

“You want me to sit on you?” Mickey pokes her again, and Mandy opens one eye.

“Not really,” she says, then drops it closed.

Mickey sighs, and reaches over to grab Ian by the shoulders and shirt collar and shove him up to make space, propping him up by wedging his shoulders between two couch cushions. Mandy flops over so she’s squished in between Ian and the couch back, making an incoherent grumbling noise, and Mickey sits down triumphantly in the now unoccupied couch corner. He flips on the television, finding only nightly news.

“Did you all rent a movie? Or did you sit around all afternoon napping?”

“Calm down,” Mandy says into the couch. “We downloaded The Ring and ordered a pizza. You shouldn’t have sat down, I want a beer.”

“You’ve got legs.”

“Fuck you,” Mandy rolls herself over Ian and slides onto the floor then gets up, cuffing Mickey gently on the ear as she goes.

“Get me one too will you?”

“And me,” Ian says.

“And fucking Sleeping Beauty over here.”

Ian lets himself slide back down the couch and his head lands in Mickey’s lap. He blinks up at him and smiles, and Mickey smiles back.

“How are you with scary movies?” Ian asks.

“Usually find ‘em cheesy,” Mickey says.

“Well, good, cause I scream like a little kid.”

“I’m not holding your fucking hand.”

He does, though. Their pizza arrives and they squish on the couch to watch the movie, Ian in the middle holding onto a pillow for protection or something. Mandy likes to fake-scream in scary movies but Ian really has at it, for real. He shrieks into the pillow when the scary ghost girls pops up on the television screen, and when it happens again he grabs onto Mickey’s hand with both of his. His fingers are like a vice so Mickey shakes him off.

A half an hour later though, when the movie gets tense again, Mickey himself jumps, almost knocking over his beer into Ian’s lap. He manages to recover it and then, on an impulse, grabs for Ian’s hand himself. Ian glances at him sideways, and Mickey raises his eyebrows and he thinks maybe Ian is going to say something but the dead horse comes up on the screen, and all three of them shriek, Mandy practically scrambling into Ian’s lap.

“Jesus Christ!” Mickey shouts. “What the fuck is this shit?” Mandy’s foot is jabbing him in the kidney so he tickles it and she jumps back to her side of the couch. “What fucked up movie did you guys pick out anyway?”

“Shh,” Ian puts his free hand in Mickey’s face to shut him up.

They finish the movie, and Mickey doesn’t let go of Ian’s hand.

 

Ian and Mandy eventually crash on the couch around two, and Mickey tosses a blanket over their shoulders and gets up, feeling very awake. Ian’s mouth is open, his cheek resting on Mandy’s hair because her head is resting on his shoulder. Mickey switches off the television and watches him sleep for a minute in the dark.

All the bullshit in his life, everything that’s happened to him that lead up to the defeated look on his face as he told Mickey what had occurred last summer, Ian is too good for it. Mickey knows this as completely he knows anything. Ian doesn’t deserve it.

And Mickey knows that he doesn't really deserve to be let in on Ian's secret, this great big thing that propels him in directions he seems to be scared to go. It makes Mickey feel older. Responsible. He's responsible for Ian's secret now, because Ian has told him. Ian's told both him and Mandy, and they're responsible for it. They can't make it better, but they can share it, they can help. 

He wishes there was some way he could fix it, make it better or even easier, and he knows that there isn’t, not really.

He’s only good at one thing but-- the thought occurs to him as Ian’s eyes shift a little under their lids. But he is good at one thing. He could do that. It might not do anything at all in the long run but he could.

Mickey watches them for a minute more and then he gets up, grabs a notebook and a pen, and starts scribbling down the lyrics to a song. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL that's the end of part three, which means there are 5 more chapters til the whole thing is finished!! it'll hopefully (hopefully.... hopefully) be all wrapped up by september. comments are always read and appreciated x


	17. Part Four: i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well maybe I’ll just go without you!” Ian snaps. His face is almost comically irritated, eyes bright and sharp and mouth turned down. “Since apparently you don’t want to be seen with me!” 
> 
> “Maybe you better,” Mickey counters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really fucking stressed about this chapter, please be gentle with me also i'm sorry

As soon as Mickey hands the song over to Mandy, he begins to think it was a very bad idea.

It’s a lesson, really, that Mickey should really have learned by now. Half of the conversations between himself and Mandy consist of arguing or teasing that varies from genuinely irritated to good natured and affectionate. It keeps Mickey on his toes or something, keeps him from getting bored. But he really should know better than to give her ammunition.

They’re in the middle of breakfast he shows it to her, tugging the creased piece of paper out of his pocket and passing it to her with a nonchalant “Look at this when you’ve got a minute would ya?” Mandy takes it as an opportunity to look up from her phone and snatches it out of his hand, and the expression on her face as her eyes skim down the page lets Mickey know he’s in trouble.

He’s pretty proud of it actually, considering he wrote most of it at midnight in one go. It has a great chorus and a few verses that could use a little tweaking maybe but definitely have the potential to carry something interesting instrumentally. And there is no way to overlook the fact of who it was written about, a fact that becomes staggeringly clear to him because of the expression on Mandy’s face.

It starts off as overwhelming surprise, then delight, then her eyes literally well up, and Mickey knows he’s made a mistake.

“Mickey, this is-- oh my God-- this is probably the best thing you’ve ever written,” she says. “I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Shut up,” Mickey shovels some cereal into his mouth as loudly as he can. Truth be told, Mickey didn’t know he had it in himself either. Handing the paper over to Mandy had caused something close to panic, which makes Mickey angry and out of sorts.

“I’m being sincere!” Mandy doesn’t seem to care. “Has he seen it?”

“Are you fucking nuts?” Mickey snaps.

Mandy smoothes one of the wrinkles out from the corner of the paper. “Are you gonna?”

“If you’re gonna make such a big deal about it just give it back,” Mickey sticks his hand out for the paper and Mandy doesn’t hand it over.

“I want to put it to music,” she says. Mickey glowers. “I’m not gonna tell him! I promise. If we perform it he’ll know,” she says mischievously. “It’s pretty obvious-- the chorus literally has ‘red hair green eyes’ written into it--”

Mickey lunges towards the paper and Mandy dances backwards behind the kitchen counter to get out of the way. It’s mostly an empty gesture, because they both know that Mickey wouldn’t have given the song to her if he didn’t want her to write it a melody and that he’s keeping up his image by being irritable and taciturn about it. Mandy doesn’t say anything else, just folds up the paper again and tucks it into her pocket with a grin.

She brings it up again a few days later when they’re in the middle of their band practice. The last week of Mickey’s life seems to have been swallowed up by band practices. The live Q101 radio station gig has crept up on them faster than expected, and its propelled Mandy into a prolonged state of permanent, inspired determination. It’s actually a much bigger gig than either of them really knew when they agreed to do it, with a total of fifteen other local bands and an expected turnout of a thousand people, maybe more. They’ve spent most of their time over the last week and a half rehearsing, arguing about the order of their half-an-hour set, arguing about what to wear, and rehearsing. Yesterday, Mandy and Ian had a several hour long debate about how Mickey should do his hair. Mickey privately can’t wait for it to just be over and done with.

He is excited too, in a very overwhelmed way. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

They’re finishing up the final version of their setlist when Mandy stretches and hands Mickey a few sheets of paper over her keyboard keys.

“Take a break from this and play through it?” She asks. Mickey gapes down at the sheet music for his song. He has no idea exactly when Mandy had time to sit down and write a complicated keyboard line and guitar part for it, but she apparently has. He can tell already that it’s stunning, even with his less than expert sight reading skills.

“Not like we’re gonna play it at the gig,” Mickey says gruffly. His fingers are already sliding over his guitar strings though, picking out the chords.

“We could,” Mandy says, “It’s good enough.”

“Just stick with what we have, Jesus, we’ve changed the set list around enough times already.” This is true. Over the past two weeks they’ve realized that they’ve written a lot of songs, and deciding which ones to squish into a tightly timed 30 minute space (with prescheduled commercial breaks and some extra time allocated for onstage banter and the station announcer) has been really, really difficult. The idea that the whole thing will be broadcast live, and filmed and shown later, is not any help. And remembering that they are not allowed to curse at all onstage is probably going to be just about impossible. Mickey isn’t enjoying it. Mandy is. Typical.

“Let’s play it,” Mandy seems undeterred. She’s also watching his hands, which have been quietly blocking out her chords even as they’ve argued, completely giving him away.

“Whatever, sure,” Mickey says. “But then back to work.”

It takes them a few goes to get through it all the way (Mickey’s sightreading ability is really not up to par and probably never will be) but it actually helps clear his mind a little to focus completely on something that isn’t the show. By the time they’re working through it for the third time it actually sounds like a song, a really good one. Mandy improvises some harmony to Mickey’s chorus that she jots down as they go, and it isn’t like Mickey will ever just whip this one out in front of an audience or anything but he feels really proud of it.

They finish it and the last few notes from the keyboard ring out in the silence as Mandy smiles across the room at him. Mickey clears his throat.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snaps. “There are two of us in this band you know, get back to work.”

Mandy just grins.

* * *

 

They use the upcoming Friday performance at the Empty Bottle as a way to test-run their setlist and gauge the reactions of the crowd. It goes really well, which seems to placate Mandy who’s been visibly nervous and increasingly irritable as a result. They spent more time sniping at each other onstage than they usually do, and Mandy solidly wins when she drags Mickey into covering a Radiohead song, which he hates. There’s a pretty big crowd though, and they mostly seem to be there to see Mandy and the Misdemeanors, not just because of a drinks special or there isn’t anything else to do. It’s a weird feeling, one Mickey doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. Mandy plugs the big show as they’re wrapping up, asking people to show up or listen in, and Mickey traipses off stage, in the mood for a cigarette and a greasy pizza and a slow fuck.

Ian is finishing his shift at the same time they’re wrapping up their set, so Mickey is momentarily optimistic about getting these things. Until he goes to find Ian, who’s been busy enough slinging cocktails all evening that their paths hadn’t crossed until now. He bounces around from behind the bar and high-fives Mandy and Mickey gets the immediate impression of a taut wire, vibrating in place.

“You’re in a good mood,” Mickey says.

“Gonna go out with my college friends! They know a new bar on the other side of town, just opened up,” Ian’s face is bright and excited. Mickey is a little disconcerted to think that he’s getting pretty good at guessing how Ian’s feeling, what kind of mood he’s in. They aren’t always the same, not just one end or the other. They vary. Tonight he’s bubbly, energetic and pretty high strung. “You guys wanna come? Go dancing? I’ve been looking forward to it all evening, I’m so excited!”

“I don’t know,” Mandy says. “I don’t really feel like it. I’m fucking exhausted.” Ian pouts, slinging his arm over her shoulder and sighing. “Oh, stop,” Mandy brushes him away, laughing. “We have an unbelievable amount of crap to do between now and next week you know!”

“Fine,” Ian makes a big show of removing his arm from her shoulders huffily, then dodges her when she tries to smack his shoulder. They wrestle around for a minute and she finally succeeds in making contact, then heads off to gather her things.

“Mickey?” Ian asks, a little breathlessly.

Mickey grunts. What he wants is to go home and sleep for maybe ten hours and lie in bed for most of tomorrow. “Do I look like a dancer to you?” He says.

“You don’t have to dance,” Ian drops his arm over Mickey’s shoulders, which makes Mickey flinch. He takes a very deep breath, willing himself to not move away. Ian doesn’t mean anything by it and it’s not a gesture that anyone would mistake for intimacy, not really. Ian’s hand slides off a second later, like he can tell. “You can hold my drink.”

“Yeah, that really makes that sound fun,” Mickey ribs him. “Why don’t you just tell your college friends to buzz off?” He means to keep going but Ian steamrolls over him.

“It’ll be fun!” He insists. “Unless you don’t want to hang out with me.” There’s something in his voice that belays real worry, and Mickey is tempted to tell him he’s being ridiculous and just leave. He settles for giving him a look from under his eyebrows instead.

“Well if you do then why don’t you come!” Ian insists. “We’ll have a good time,” he continues, and nudges Mickey with his shoulder. “Have a few drinks, maybe make out on the dance floor--”

“Fuck no!” Mickey snaps. He feels as if there’s a hook connected somewhere in his navel that someone has yanked on, hard and mercilessly. The suggestion is sudden and stupid and horrifying and from the look on Ian’s face he has no idea the impact his words have had on Mickey, how his insides feel turned over and his whole body feels hot.

“Why?” Ian asks, frowning. “Mickey, nobody’s gonna care.”

“What fucking planet do you live on?” Mickey demands. Ian blinks at him for a second and then he laughs, which is such a bizarre response that Mickey can only stare at him.

“We’re going to a gay bar!” He says. “My friends and I. Everyone else is gonna be up to worse, nobody’s even gonna look our way. It’s okay!”

“Oh,” Mickey manages. “Sure, it’s all okay. I’m sure it’s a great place, if being checked out by geriatric sleezebags is your idea of a good time. It ain’t mine, so no fucking thanks.”

“It isn’t that kind of place,” Ian says.

“Uh huh,” Mickey says sharply.

“Well maybe I’ll just go without you!” Ian snaps. His face is almost comically irritated, eyes bright and sharp and mouth turned down. “Since apparently you don’t want to be seen with me!”

“Maybe you better,” Mickey counters.

“Fine!” Ian says, and he shoves past Mickey and towards the door.

“Have a nice fucking time!” Mickey shouts as the door bangs shut behind him. It feels satisfying, for a second. As soon as Ian is gone for good, figure vanishing into the dark outside the bar, it feels stupid.

Mandy comes wandering back over to Mickey, her keyboard packed away and slung over her shoulder. “What the hell was that?” She asks. Mickey doesn’t have an answer.

They go home, and he still doesn’t have an answer, and Mandy gives him a weird look as he throws himself onto the couch with a beer, and he wishes he did just to shut her up, but he doesn’t. Mickey feels like he lost that argument somehow, but he can’t pinpoint why.

* * *

 

Mandy’s gone to bed and Mickey is half-drunk and half-asleep and staring at an infomercial on the television when there’s an unexpected banging on their door. He jolts upright with a start, wondering if it’s the TV for a second. His second thought is that it has to be their downstairs neighbors, who always seem to be complaining about something. The clock next to the television reads 12:45 in blinking digital letters. Mickey thinks about ignoring it when the banging comes again, louder, so he sighs and hauls himself up and shuffles to the door.

It isn’t their irritable downstairs neighbors. It’s Ian.

He looks awful. His hair is disheveled and he’s leaning heavily on the doorframe, and his face is flushed and blotchy. He’s drunk, in the stumbling-around, bleary, hopeless way people get when they’re feeling sorry for themselves, the way Mickey only gets when he can’t sleep or can’t forget or knows he’s fucked up. He blinks a little in the light from inside Mickey’s apartment, and the way it mixes with the orange fluorescent lights in the stairwell makes him look washed out, tired.

“You smell like a distillery,” Mickey says brusquely, crossing his arms.

“I drunked, I drank,” Ian frowns, like he’s confused about his own tongue. “Too much.” He sighs.

“Your fancy college friends didn’t wanna hang with you?” Mickey doesn’t want to feel sorry for him, but he does. He can’t help it. Ian looks wrecked.

“Ditched them,” Ian says slowly. “Weren’t any fun. Was no fun without you.” He slides along the door frame a little, almost knocking himself over.

“Jesus-- get your drunk ass inside--” Mickey grabs at Ian’s hands and pulls him through the doorway and, with a little maneuvering, on to the couch. Ian flops onto it, dragging his hands over his face, and Mickey sits on the other end. He finishes the dregs of his own beer, crumples the can and tosses it in the direction of the trash.

“Don’t puke on my couch,” Mickey says. Ian straightens up, his face crumpled in irritation and Mickey thinks maybe he’s still mad. He doesn’t know if he’s even mad. Just tired. Uncomfortable.

Mickey doesn’t like feeling this unhappy when somebody else is unhappy, not if that somebody else is someone other than Mandy.

“We had a fight,” Ian says. “That was our-- I don’t know-- that was something. A fight. I fucked up.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey sighs. Ian’s eyes are bleary and bloodshot, but focused on his face.

“I fucked up,” Ian repeats insistently.

“I was an ass,” Mickey hears himself say, and Ian’s mouth crinkles at the corners.

“Sometimes I do things that don’t make sense later,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to. I don’t know it when it happens. I don’t.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey repeats. “Ian.” He doesn’t know how to have this conversation. Doesn’t know what to say to fix it. Doesn’t know if he wants to, if he can.

“I’m too much, it’s all too--” Ian waves his hands in the air like he’s trying to pluck his words out of it. “Intense.” He says. “Sorry.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that so he does the only thing he can think of. He leans forward across the couch and kisses Ian on the mouth, stopping the flow of his words. He tastes like tequila and a little like mint chewing gum and he presses into Mickey’s mouth like he’s drowning. He tumbles forward across the couch, his hands in Mickey’s hair and they fall sideways off it, a tangle of knees and fingers and Ian’s hot mouth.

They end up with Ian on his back, Mickey’s hands on either side of his head and his knees on either side of Ian’s hips. Mickey can feel Ian’s pulse through his t-shirt and they stare at each other for a long minute.

“What do you want?” Ian asks finally.

Mickey doesn’t have an answer.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, and that seems to be good enough, for now.

* * *

 

  
Ian wakes up the next morning with a headache, a bone-deep tiredness in his body that has nothing to do with alcohol or how late he stayed up, and Mickey sitting next to him on the bed holding a glass of water in one hand and toast in the other. It takes Ian a few minutes to process all of this and what bed he’s lying in and why the voice coming from the kitchen is in a language he can’t understand. He thinks for a minute he might be really going nuts, but then it dawns on him that it’s Russian. He’s in Mickey’s bed, with a hangover, and Svetlana is talking to someone loudly in Russian in the other room.

“Morning, cupcake, you alive?” Mickey nudges his shoulder with the glass of water, his mouth full of toast. Ian groans into the pillow. Svetlana starts swearing in the other room as if to emphasize how Ian’s feeling. Ian hauls himself into a sitting position slowly; his limbs feel like lead and there’s a hollowness in the pit of his stomach and he can already tell that this is going to be a bad day and it’s barely even started. He accepts the glass of water from Mickey and chugs it, and blinks.

“Why are you wearing slippers?”

Mickey scowls at him. “My fucking feet get cold,” he says. “Want coffee?”

“Please.”

Mickey stuffs the last of the toast in his mouth and gets up off the bed, heading towards the door. Ian watches him maneuver around Svetlana, who is on the phone and flips him off as he walks by, then pour coffee into a mug and turn back around. There’s a heavy feeling of doubt settling over him like a lead blanket and he wants to just disregard it and shake it away but he can’t. He feels it settle in on his shoulders and he can’t shrug it off. He remembers Mickey’s angry, cagey expression from the night before, the bite in his words, the disregard in his voice, and it grows heavier.

It’s all in your head, Ian says. Everything fine, it’s just in your head, don’t act crazy.

But he can’t stop seeing the expression from last night like it’s been superimposed over Mickey’s face, even as Mickey comes back into his bedroom and hands him the mug. The ceramic is hot under Ian’s fingers but despite that and the blankets bunched around his waist he feels cold, and tired, and uncertain. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but Mickey’s fingers don’t touch his as he passes him the coffee cup, and maybe it’s just his imagination but Mickey sits at the edge of the bed rather than next to him on it.

“Sounds like she’s fighting with the fucking KGB in there,” Mickey gestures to Svetlana, who is waving her hands in the air angrily. “Her uncle or some shit. You work today?”

“Yeah, tonight. Hey,” Ian finds his voice after drinking half the cup. The liquid is hot on his throat and he finds he doesn’t really want it but he needs the caffeine so he drinks it anyway. “You wanna talk about it?”

Mickey’s eyebrows snap together. “Bout what?” he says.

“Yesterday,” Ian makes himself say. He stares into the half-empty coffee cup. Steam is rising from it, tickling the inside of his nose.

“The fuck is there to talk about?” Mickey snaps, familiar defensive anger creeping back into his voice. He gets up abruptly, almost upending Ian’s mug, and stomps into the other room, leaving Ian alone. Ian watches him throw himself onto the couch, his jaw and his breathing and his body tight.

He’s gotten to a point a few times over the last few months where he thinks he’s figured Mickey out. First, when he’d kissed him the first time and later after they’d slept together for the first time, and then again when Mickey had spilled his story, and one more time when he’d asked Ian to spend the night after cutting his hand open. And then there are moments where Ian wonders if he’s gotten anywhere at all, if anything has changed or if he’s stuck being permanently held back at arm’s length.

* * *

 

Two days before the concert, Ian drags Mickey to the zoo.

This is possibly the last thing on earth Mickey has ever wanted to do, especially two days before the hugest concert they’ve ever performed in, but Ian wakes up in the morning grinning with his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey says no but doesn’t mean it. Ian practically drags him out of his apartment and on to the El and he makes Mickey put on sunblock and has packed some fucking lunch, and Mickey can hardly believe his life has come to this.

He’s also pretty sure that Svetlana is doing the same thing to Mandy. He’s pretty sure they planned it together. Ian just grins at him when they’re in line to get their tickets and he asks this.

“That’s a fucking scary thought,” Mickey says. A woman with two kids in a stroller behind them glares. “You two, getting along. Conspiring.”

Ian’s eyes twinkle. All the animosity between them because of the other night seems to be-- well, not gone exactly, because Mickey can sense that Ian is turning something around in his head that he hasn’t brought up yet. There have been a few moments in the last week where Mickey has caught Ian staring at him, frowning or chewing his lip. He’d gone home without really talking to Mickey the other day and as far as Mickey can tell he’d crashed, slept through his shift and pissed off his boss. Mandy had freaked out, and Mickey had been pretty freaked by it too, but Ian had come over the next day looking more or less the same as ever, assuring them both he was fine. It had been pretty obvious he hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

But there’s something a little brittle in his eyes that makes Mickey feel simultaneously guilty and pissed off. It is the last fucking thing Mickey wants to think about this week, with everything else going on. It’s not like he owes Ian anything, he tells himself for maybe the fifth or sixth time, regardless of what Ian thinks is going on here.

Ian doesn’t seem to notice Mickey’s train of thought at all. “She’s teaching me some useful Russian phrases,” he says.

“Jesus Christ, like what?”

Ian shrugs and starts dragging his wallet out of his pocket. “Fuck off, fuck you and fuck me,” he says, and hands some bills to the staring woman at the counter.

“All you could ever need to know,” Mickey snorts, and he follows Ian into the zoo.

Mickey lets himself be irritable for about twenty minutes, but Ian practically drags him to the monkeys, rattling off more information than Mickey ever possibly needs to know about lemurs.

“I badgered my way into taking a zoology class last semester,” Ian explains as they watch something orange and fluffy that Ian has identified as a lion tamarin leap around a cage.

“Why the fuck’d you do that?”

“Thought it would be interesting!” Ian says cheerfully. “I get bored learning about the same things all day.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows and watches Ian grin at him and move off down the pathway, and he bites back a grin once he’s sure nobody will see it. Ian is in a mood, so full of energy that Mickey can practically feel it radiating off of him, and Mickey can barely keep up with him. It’s a good thing they’re here instead of someone else, that Ian’s attention is focused on tamarins and not Mickey himself.

The day is warm but overcast which means the zoo isn’t as jam-packed with kids as it would be usually, and that the animals are active and walking around. They spend a while looking at the giraffes, and then Mickey makes Ian walk through the lizard and snake exhibit which Ian isn’t excited about at all. He walks immediately to Mickey’s right the whole time, putting Mickey in between himself and the wall of glass cages, hovering behind him while Mickey peers in to look closer.

“C’mon, let’s go see the big cats,” he whines. “Mickey they’re gross! Eugh,” Mickey is watching a skink slither across the cage floor.

“You dragged me here, you wait,” Mickey says, but he concedes and they head towards the tigers.

When they reach the tiger cage Mickey is disappointed to see that it’s empty. He’s about to turn and head off when Ian catches his arm, pointing across the exhibit. The tiger, huge and broad-shouldered, pads slowly out from behind a log and crosses the length of the exhibit. Ian rests his arms on the metal railing and they watch the enormous cat walk and then leap up onto a tree trunk a good six feet off the ground.

“Jesus, that thing is huge,” Mickey says. “Bet you could ride it.”

“You’d have to catch it first.”

“Yeah, no thank you.” The tiger’s paws are at least as big as Mickey’s face. It strolls past them again and he watches it go then notices out of the corner of his eye that Ian isn’t watching the tiger, he’s watching him watching it.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he demands.

“No reason,” Ian says. He straightens up, turns to face Mickey more squarely. “You’re not that mad that I dragged you out of bed, are you?”

“Where’d you get that idea? I’m doing something wrong apparently,” Mickey says. Ian scoffs, still looking at him with that goofy expression. “I’m having a good time,” Mickey admits. “Alright? You happy? I’m at the zoo and I’m having fun.”

“Thought so,” Ian says. “And yeah, I am.”

“Am what?”

“Happy.” And Ian starts leaning forward and down towards him, and Mickey knows it’s because Ian is going to kiss him, they’re standing next to the tigers in the open air in the zoo in broad daylight and Ian is going to kiss him, and something in Mickey’s brain goes off. Like a bomb. One minute he’s fine and the next his pulse has rocketed up and his lungs don’t work and the only thing that matters is that this can’t happen, it can’t because it’s wrong and more than that it’s dangerous. There’s an alarm in Mickey’s head that’s ringing _danger, danger, danger_ , ringing like a fucking air siren, and he hardly realizes his fist has collided with the corner of Ian’s chin until Ian is stumbling backwards against the railing.

Everything seems to be washed over red and hazy and Mickey knows he has to go, has to go now before it’s too late and he can’t.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian is gasping in shock as Mickey starts up and away from him. Mickey feels a momentary surge of guilt but it’s swamped by something he can’t even put a name to, a nerve-ending-raw surge of panic.

“Wait-- hey, hold up!” Mickey’s feet stop of their own accord. He doesn’t feel like he has control of his body. Ian stops a few feet away from him and extends his hand like he’s going to put it on Mickey’s shoulder but then stops abruptly, like he’s worried what Mickey will do if he touches him. Mickey doesn’t know what he’ll do if Ian touches him. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t think about-- it’s alright, it’s fine--”

Everything is so unbelievably far from fine that Mickey laughs without even meaning to do it. A few people are staring curiously in their direction and Mickey can practically feel the weight of their attention on him. He has to keep moving, has to get away from it.

“I’m getting out of here,” he says, more to himself than to Ian, and he turns and starts walking towards the entrance again. The crowd lessens as they get closer; it’s getting overcast so fewer people are coming in to the zoo. Ian follows him, staying a few feet back, and a few minutes later he speaks again.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Mickey snaps.

“It didn’t look like nothing,” Ian says. His voice is quiet but stubborn, and when Mickey turns around his face is the same way.

“Will you just get off my ass?” Mickey’s voice comes out mean and tight. “It’s none of your goddamn business, Gallagher.”

“It is my business because I made it my business when I signed up for this!” Ian says.

“You didn’t sign a fucking contract.”

“So you don’t think maybe I’d like to know why you just tried to hit me when I tried to kiss you?”

He says it and it feels a little bit like Mickey’s been punched in the stomach. All the air goes out of him. It’s one thing to do it and another to hear Ian say it. He hadn’t meant to, it had just-- happened. Just happened. There’s something red and hot and ugly sitting on his tongue and when he opens his mouth it spills out because he’s never been good at not running his mouth, not getting into fights even when he knows he can’t win them.

He wants to grab Ian by the shoulders and shake him until he shuts up, and he’s furious, and he feels like his whole body is on fire, and he is way, way, way too sober to even think about having this conversation.

“You got a fucking screw loose?” He says, and Ian flinches away from him at the words and Mickey feels bad, he does, but he also can’t stop. “Why the fuck do you think? You think I want you to?”

“You don’t want me to?” Ian says. His voice is small.

“No!” Mickey splutters. As if he’d asked Ian to stick his tongue down his throat in the middle of a fucking zoo. “I don’t know what you think’s happening here,” Mickey’s mouth keeps going.

There’s something in Ian’s face that Mickey doesn’t really have a name for and it makes him angry, makes the mean red thing inside him swell more because Ian shouldn’t be looking at him like that, like he’s expecting Mickey to admit that he’s joking. It’s the way he’d been looking at him last Saturday morning, mixed with shock, mixed with anger.

“I thought we were on the same page,” Ian says. “And also, I don’t know, a date.”

“You thought that, did you?” Mickey snarls. “And what do you want, then? You wanna go fuck in the grass over there? Go get matching tattoos maybe? That’s not how this works. I’m not gonna hold your fucking hand”

“No,” Ian shakes his head. “I don’t know how this conversation got derailed and I didn’t mean to freak you out and maybe we should talk about it later because I don’t think either of us are in a good place--”

“You think that, do you?”

Ian takes a very deep breath through his nose and holds it for a second before letting it go. He’s trying hard not to get mad and Mickey doesn’t really think it’s working. Good. Mickey’s better at fighting than he is at conversations; his words come easy when he’s mad or drunk in a way they never can when he’s not either one. Ian’s trying to keep a lid on it, trying really hard, and Mickey would be happier if he’d just let it go.

“You’re really-- fuck-- I thought I’d let it go, let it blow over from earlier. From the other day. But I can’t. I don’t need a big dramatic gesture or to change my Facebook status, I’m not gonna drag you on a fucking picnic if you don’t want to--”

Mickey laughs and it gets half stuck in his throat and comes out as a sound he doesn’t even recognize.  

“I don’t care about any of that. I don’t even need you to hold my hand. I just want you to look me in the fucking eye when in public and admit we’re on a date!” Ian isn’t even demanding, not really, there’s a question in his voice, a sort of fevered desperation and Mickey wants to just walk away from him but he can’t, not when Ian sounds like that.

Mickey tries, for half a second. He tries to meet Ian’s eyes and as soon as he does he know, he knows that there is someone behind him, someone heading in their direction and his entire body is crawling with the knowledge that there’s someone there and he’s turning around involuntarily before he can stop himself, and rather than face Ian again he just starts walking in the other direction.

His own heartbeat is loud and oppressive in the inside of his head and Mickey walks faster because he can’t get away from it. He’s past the zoo entrance and starting across the parking lot towards the bus stop when he realizes Ian is still following behind him. If it had been him, Mickey would have just let him go. He would have a long time ago. The fact that Mickey knows Ian isn’t going to let this go because he knows Ian makes him want to hit something.

“Don’t fucking apologize again,” Mickey holds a hand to stop Ian talking before he even gets going. He doesn’t think he can listen to it, Ian apologizing for something not his fault. The look on his face suggests that Ian was thinking no such thing. Ian takes a step forward and blurts before Mickey can get moving again, put enough distance between them that he can’t hear what Ian is going to say.

“Look I just-- I just want to know where I stand, okay? That’s all. I’m not asking for some big declaration--”

“Sure as hell sounds like it,” Mickey barks.

“Will you just fucking look at me? Just try and hear me for one second?”

“If you stop fucking shouting in my face--”

“I just need to know! I have to know for sure and this-- this bullshit isn’t good enough, okay?” Mickey glances back at him and Ian’s face is mean. He saw this the other day, directed at Lip. Ian’s never turned it on him before now, all intense expression and jutting chin, and it stings. But Mickey can be mean too. He’s probably better at it.

“Whatever the fuck you want, Gallagher, it isn’t happening. Whatever you think is going on here, it ain’t.”

“ I don’t need you to, fuck, make some big public announcement or fly a banner or some shit, this isn’t about that. I don’t need you to tell me what the fuck happened back there because I fucking get it! But I deserve to know and I know you feel--”

“You don’t know fuck all about anything.”

“I’m not good at in-betweens. I can’t-- I need you to just do something. Anything.” And now Ian’s voice is desperate and he takes a small step forward. Nobody has ever looked at Mickey the way Ian looks at Mickey. His eyes are huge and he takes another little step forward like he’s afraid of moving too fast towards him and he looks about ten years old, lost and sad and practically begging Mickey to close the space between them. Mickey’s eyes flicker from Ian’s eyes to his mouth and he can feel his physical presence, nothing but inches away, and it would be so easy to just step forward, close the space, put his thumb on Ian’s lower lip and then kiss him hard, hard enough it hurts but in a way he’ll know Ian will still like, kiss him and prove him wrong and put this whole stupid thing behind them.

But he can’t.

The minute he thinks it his entire body seizes up and his breath stops. His ears start ringing and if Ian says anything else he can’t hear it. He practically stumbles backwards, shoving at Ian with one hand and it feels like his limbs don’t work because he trips over his own feet and bangs his knee badly on the curb before pulling himself up again.

“Mickey!” Ian’s voice sounds miles away and he steps forward to help him up.

“Back the fuck up!” Mickey snarls and lashes out without meaning to. His fist hits Ian’s shoulder and they both stumble away from each other, Mickey somehow managing to get back on his feet again. Their shouting has attracted attention, and a handful of people are turned their way. Dimly, Mickey hears someone ask Ian if he’s okay and Ian tells them everything is fine, it’s all fine, nothing’s going on here at all. Everything in his line of sight feels like it’s swimming and his breath is coming sharp and so hard it’s hurting his chest, and he has to get out of here so he does, turns around and practically runs across the parking lot.

* * *

 

Ian watches Mickey storm off across the parking lot and there’s a small part of him that says, very quietly, let it go, just let it go. It’s a very small part and it’s quickly drowned out by the roaring in his ears. He moves without thinking, because he has to do something and action is better than just watching Mickey go and Ian is angry. More angry than he’s ever been in his life, maybe, because he doesn’t know if he’s angry with Mickey or his brain or himself.

Nothing seems to be making sense, nothing is adding up and Ian is way, way too angry and he knows that’s not right, that he shouldn’t feel this way because this is really his fault. He didn’t think, he pushed Mickey into whatever this is, and it’s his fault. He can’t seem to reign it in. This is his fault, it was fine and then he ruined it like he ruins everything by pushing too hard, expecting too much. Like always. That’s where he always is, always too intense for everyone else, always slightly off somehow. His fault. Mickey is better off walking away from him.

“So that’s it?” He bellows. “You’re just gonna run off?” Don’t, he thinks somewhere inside his head, don’t run off, don’t let him go, don’t do this, don’t. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. He starts across the lot without looking where he’s going and there’s a squeal of brakes that indicates he’s almost stepped in front of a car. “Fuck off!” He shouts. The driver, an old lady in a sedan, is staring at him in alarm. “Will you just fucking stop?”

Mickey does, amazingly. He stops dead, staring at Ian from across the parking lot. Even from here Ian can see his face is drawn, angry. “I’m not here for this bullshit,” he says stubbornly, and Ian is so angry he can’t breathe. “I’m not part of the Lifetime movie you’re writing in your head, got it?”

This makes Ian feel like he’s been smacked in the ribs with a baseball bat. “The past two months just meant nothing?” He demands. “Cause I don’t buy that at all, Mickey. Not even a little.”

“You think you know anything about me?” Mickey is still halfway across the parking lot but Ian can feel the physical impact of his words against his ribs, his head, the bottom of his stomach. You don’t. You think you’re inside my fucking head? You’re not.”

“I kinda do know you, or I’m starting to. Or I thought I did.” Ian could fill a book with the things he knows about Mickey. He’s been drinking them in, his funny turns of phrase, his mannerisms, the way his shoulders move when he’s being modest and how his mouth is shaped and the calluses on his fingers. How he drinks his coffee. What sets him on edge. What he’s scared of. Ian does know him, as more than just a collection of details. Or he thought he did.

“You thought wrong!” Mickey yells. It’s more like a snarl.

“I don’t believe you.” His voice isn’t convincing, not even to himself.

“You want proof or something? You watching real close?” Mickey’s eyes are blazing and he turns on his heel for a final time and walks away from Ian, quickly, purposefully. His shoulders are set and his mind is made up and he is not going to turn around.

“Go then! Fucking run!” Ian yells, because he can’t help it, he can’t help anything and he feels like he’s going to fly apart maybe. “I’m not gonna sit here and wait for you to come back!”

“Yeah, don’t waste your fucking time!” Mickey’s voice rings out, and he vanishes around a corner, and he’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so funny story that line about ian bottoming was TOTALLY UNINTENTIONAL AND AN ACCIDENT it was a typo that was supposed to be mickey saying 'i want you to fuck me" not the other way around. but my tipsy brain corrected it. #letianbottom keep the movement alive


	18. Part Four: ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s probably better off this way, anyway. Mickey should have known. He broke his own damn rules. 
> 
> And it’s not like he cares. Right? He doesn’t care at all. 
> 
> Right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for the usual (alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use, ian being sad and fucked up, mickey being sad and fucked up. )
> 
> iangalager.tumblr.com

Mickey almost jogs for maybe ten blocks until he gets a stitch in his side and has to stop, but because he isn’t sure where he is he keeps walking. He starts walking with the intention of finding a bus stop but stops when he finds a liquor store. And he goes inside because he doesn’t want to have to think about anything at all.

He buys a bottle of whiskey, cheap and wrapped in a paper bag, and then he finds the bus, and he ends up in a park because he doesn’t want to go home and he doesn’t want anyone to come looking for him.

He starts drinking because he doesn’t want to have to think, but he thinks anyway.

He doesn’t know what Gallagher was expecting, anyway. Mickey never asked him to get attached, never asked to be dragged on dates to the zoo and definitely never asked to be kissed in broad daylight surrounded by the entire city of Chicago and some giraffes.

The thought makes him feel sick and angry all over again, a fresh wave of it. He didn’t ask for this. Doesn’t want this.

That’s a lie, of course. Which makes him feel worse.

The park he stumbles into is a rundown one, and most of the inhabitants seem to be drunks and teenagers killing time rather than kids and their families. Mickey weaves his way through the playground equipment, his hand around the neck of the bottle like a vice, and wanders his way to a cluster of benches underneath an old gnarly tree at the back of the park.

If the cops drive by and see you with that, a little irritating voice in his head says, you’ll be in trouble. Probably better off that way anyway, he thinks. If he gets arrested he won’t have to stumble back home to his sister. If he gets arrested he won’t ever have to see Ian Gallagher look at him the way he was looking at him. As long as they don’t stick him in the same facility as Terry. Maybe Mickey could finally finish him off, find something that a psychologist or some shit might refer to as ‘closure.’

This idea is so funny that Mickey laughs out loud, startling a few girls sitting in the grass nearby. He probably looks completely unwell, red-faced and clutching a bottle and laughing at the sky, beat-up knuckles and a shirt that used to be a t-shirt but has long since lost its sleeves. It’s like a bad joke. All of this, like a bad joke. What he said to Ian and the fact that he hit him (hadn’t meant to, didn’t mean to, but did) and how he’d flown from panic right into rage, and how he’s standing in a park half-drunk in the middle of the day contemplating the hypothetical peace axe-murdering his dad would give him.

There’s a joke in here somewhere, something about ending up like our parents. It’s probably hilarious. The punchline, Mickey’s life. Cue laugh track.

* * *

 

Ian doesn’t have a clear recollection of how he gets himself home, or even how he makes himself leave the zoo parking lot. He stands there for a while, pointlessly staring at the corner Mickey had vanished around, like somehow maybe he’ll pop back around it rolling his eyes. “Just a joke, wasn’t that funny? Jesus, Gallagher, you can really act like an asshole when you get going.” But he doesn’t. So Ian goes home, running on autopilot, getting on the train like he’s some big windup toy.

He hadn’t made his bed when they’d left in the morning. It’s still rumpled, the sheets bunched at the bottom, the pillow on the left still indented from the weight of Mickey’s head the night before. Ian grabs it and throws it across the room. That doesn’t seem like enough so he yanks the sheets off his bed altogether, tugging the pillowcase off the pillows, and shoves everything in the the washing machine. He tugs off the shirt he’s wearing, for good measure, and throws it in too. He goes into the bathroom and washes his hands vigorously in the sink, scrubbing at them until they’re pink and smarting, and then leaves the room as fast as he can so he doesn’t have to look himself in the eye in the mirror.

Everything feels too big and Ian feels too small, rattling around inside of his own body, and he doesn’t even make it out his bedroom door into the hall before he sags sideways against the wall and then to the floor.

This was supposed to be a good day.

Ian wants to avoid dividing up his life into good and bad days, good moods and bad ones, because the lines aren’t so obvious and he’s never just split right down the middle, despite what the descriptions in badly-written psychology websites might imply. But he does anyway. He can’t help it. This was supposed to be good. He can’t always tell for sure when it will be, but he’d woken up with a good feeling.

Ian lets himself go, slide the rest of the way so his body is horizontal, his face on the carpet. The corner of his eyes start itch and tingle and the fact that he’s probably going to cry is so juvenile, so unbelievably ridiculous, that he pounds his fist on the floor until he’s breathing hard and it hurts.

_Whatever you think is going on here, it ain’t._

But it was. It was.

_It ain’t._

He hadn’t made it up.

_You thought wrong!_

He had. Ian had it wrong. Maybe there’d been a moment where things had been okay, maybe not. If there had been, he’d scared it right off. Who’d want to stick around, really, after finding out the truth? Ian almost can’t blame him. Crying on the floor like a goddamned teenager.

It was supposed to be a good day but Ian crashes anyway, sliding into unconsciousness without getting up off the floor.

When he wakes up, a couple of hours later, his body is stiff and his mouth tastes sour and he has the sudden, skin-crawling need to be high in a way that will make all of this just fall right out of his head.

He hasn’t been, hasn’t even tried to or really even thought about it, since last summer, unless you count smoking pot with Mandy or his brother (and Ian doesn’t). Taking daily medication has knocked most of the appeal of hard drugs right out of him like a kick up the ass but suddenly Ian is craving it, the feeling of not even being aware of his problems, not being himself at all.

It also makes him feel overwhelmingly guilty in a horrible full-body way, but he finds himself reaching for his phone anyway. There are a few numbers in there that he hasn’t felt the need to call for a year. His hands feel unsteady but he presses a few buttons and puts the phone to his ear. He feels worse when someone picks up.

“Curtis!” Hearing the fake name makes Ian jump a little. He’d almost forgotten he’d used it, when his desire to continue being someone named Ian Gallagher, with Ian Gallagher’s problems and Ian Gallagher’s fucked-up brain, had bordered on desperation. “How the hell you doing, man? Been a while!”

“Jack, hey.” Ian’s voice sounds tight even to himself “Been okay. You?”

Jack’s an old hookup, in two senses of the word. He laughs. “Can’t complain!” He says.

“Good to hear.”

“I’m assuming you’re calling for a reason,” Jack continues. “No offense taken, don’t you worry! Want me to send a little something your way?”

Ian snaps the phone shut, his stomach heaving, and shoves it away from him. For a second he thinks he’s going to throw up but he gets a handle on it, his head between his hands. On the other side of the room, his phone rings, then the automatic message kicks in.

He feels a tiny swell of pride in his chest when he just deletes the message without listening to it. He ruins it pretty fast when he walks into his kitchen and picks up the bottle of vodka that’s sitting in a cabinet, but nobody’s perfect. And this was supposed to be a good day.

* * *

 

The sun is starting to go down when Mickey sees Terry.

He’s been sitting with his back up against the old tree in the park, working his way through the bottle and the rest of his pack of smokes and watching a few people come and go at the edges of the playground. Time seems to have slipped or something and a few hours have probably gone by, and eventually Mickey begins to be unpleasantly aware that he’s been sitting here for a long time and he really has to take a piss.

He has to go home, sometime. He has to play at the show tomorrow. That reminder, and the accompanying thought that this morning that was the only thing he was even beginning to worry about, makes his head hurt.

Ian was going to come. Ian isn’t going to come now. Mickey takes another swallow from the bottle.

The need to piss is now bordering on painful so Mickey gets up slowly and starts walking away from the tree; there’s a convenience store across the street and he decides to head for that. There’s a crowd of middle-aged men, shabbily dressed and probably just about as drunk as Mickey is, sitting on some of the benches at the edge of the park and they glance up as Mickey walks slowly past them and for one single solid second Mickey sees Terry.

It’s gone as fast as it ever was there and the man, a patchy greying beard and sweat-stained tanktop, grins cheerfully at him, but for a moment he was Terry, he was really there.

Everything about him, the way his mouth curls when it gets mean, the way he smells, was exactly true to life.

And also just in Mickey’s head.

“Got a light?” the man with the patchy beard asks him, and there is a fist around Mickey’s throat so he can’t even speak because a second ago he saw his father, his father who’s in jail, his father who tried to kill him. Mickey throws the mostly-empty bottle and he runs.

Throwing a bottle and running is not a solution, and he knows it, but he doesn’t know how to do anything else. Running is all Mickey’s ever really been good at. He’s been doing it his whole life, sometimes because he needs to, sometimes because he wants to, sometimes just because he can. He doesn’t know how to stand still. He doesn’t know how to look anyone in the eye. He doesn’t know how to stop.

He isn’t about to stop now so Mickey keeps walking, with the sinking realization that he’s hurled his half-empty bottle of booze and it’s self-contained ability to numb the fuck out of the shit going on in his head. So he walks until he finds another bus stop, and he rides the bus until it takes him to a bar, and then he stops at the counter and orders a drink.

It’s a bar he’s been to before, one he used to frequent when he was younger and wanted a quick fuck with no questions or pretense because everyone else is probably there for the same reason. The bartender isn’t anyone he knows, and he doesn’t recognize anybody. Mickey knocks back two shots, feeling grateful for anonymity. He orders one more and stares at the glass in his hand, his head swimming.

He’s stopped feeling angry, and he just feels empty, and it comes with the knowledge that maybe he’s really fucked this up. Like he fucks everything up that he touches. It’s fate or something, the stupid tattoos his cousin did years ago, like they herald the outcome of everything and everyone that he gets his hands on.

He’d seen him, Terry. He’d really seen him. And, of course, he hadn’t. Mickey wants to scream but of course he can’t and it stays trapped inside his skull, rebounding off his teeth and spiraling down and down into the pit of his stomach, some dark place inside him where things are supposed to stay buried. That’s really the trouble. All this stuff, his dad and everything that happened that made him run away and everything that happened before that, is supposed to stay trapped down there, rotting and achy but sunk deep enough that it doesn’t see light. But it’s been disturbed, and it’s bubbling up. Like the mud and slime at the coldest part of a very deep pond, when someone hurls a heavy stone right into the center of the water. Stuff comes floating to the surface, a little at a time and then huge chunks of it, muddying up the water at the top.

Ian. Throwing the stone by asking questions, by being there at all.

It’s probably better off this way, anyway. Mickey should have known. He broke his own damn rules.

And it’s not like he cares. Right? He doesn’t care at all.

Right.

There is a solution to this. A short-term one, only a little more effective than another bottle of something cheap would be, but he’s here and he’s drunk and he doesn’t care so it seems like the best thing Mickey can think of. It always used to make him feel better. It’s what got him into this mess.

Mickey turns from the bar and glances around the room. The thing about a dive like this is that everyone else here is here for one of two reasons, and anyone looking his way is definitely here for the second.

His eye lands on a tall guy at the other end of the bar, dark hair and good biceps, who’s definitely been looking his way for a few minutes. Something in his stomach lurches and he ignores it as he knocks back the rest of his drink and moves across the room. He doesn’t even have to start the conversation.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” the guy is drinking a mostly-empty glass of what is probably an Old Fashioned. Mickey’s drunk enough that his face mostly blurs together when he tries to focus on it.

“Used to hang out here,” Mickey says. “Don’t so much anymore.”

“I come here a lot,” the brunette says. “I’m Nick. Can I get you a drink, or something?”

“Sam,” Mickey lies. “I’ve had a few drinks already, don’t need another. Wouldn’t mind if you followed me out of here.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Nick says, and they both turn towards the door to the bar.

“You live around here?” Nick asks. He reaches out to touch Mickey’s arm and Mickey jumps at the contact; he feels woozy, stumbling over his feet, but he’s determined to make it out the door, to prove something to himself by doing this. He’s almost already forgotten what it was.

“No,” Mickey says shortly. They walk out the door and the night is hot and humid. The sidewalk outside is crowded with smokers.

“Luckily I do.” Nick smirks a little, the corner of his mouth curling. It’s a tiny movement and it hits Mickey like someone’s socked him right under the ribcage, like someone’s let loose a ton of bricks from an airplane and they’ve cracked his skull right open.

He sees, rather than thinks, the corner of Ian’s mouth.

How it moves when he feels obstinate, and how it’s shaped when he laughs and the way it says Mickey’s name. His mouth, and his freckles, and his fair eyelashes, and how he laughs at his own stupid jokes and how happy he looks when Mickey laughs at his laugh. His fingers, much bigger than Mickey’s and clever and freckled too. How they’d touched Mickey’s jaw when they’d woke up this morning. That was just this morning. Ian’s bed. His head on Ian’s pillow. Ian’s fingers on his jaw.

And his face, sun-drenched and hungover and making pancakes in Mickey’s kitchen, and frowning in concentration as he tries to win at a video game, and angry, so angry and hurt and far-away in the parking lot today, and across the room, that first glimpse, in the smoky bar. That’s Ian. Ian, Ian, Mickey thinks. This guy is nobody and Ian is everything and what the fuck does he think he’s about to do?

He turns away and is sick, violently and horribly. He doubles over and throws up into the street. People scatter.

“Shit-- you okay? Oh my God--” Nick is saying and Mickey straightens up. Nick is staring at him in disgust and Mickey doesn’t care.

“Get fucked,” Mickey says, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his shaky hand and he starts to walk as fast as he can towards home.

* * *

 

“Thanks for coming,” Mandy is in the front seat of Lip Gallagher’s car, chewing on her thumbnail nervously.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Lip says heavily.

Ian is in the back of the car, head slumped sideways on to the armrest, out cold. Mandy had found him more or less where he’d described to her over the phone, on a park bench a few blocks from the bus stop he’d gotten off at. When he’d called, Mandy had almost not recognized his voice. She’d been in bed, nodding off, and he’d slurred something to her over the line that she hadn’t caught, and it had taken her a few minutes to piece together that he was on a bus, going somewhere unclear. She’d gotten him off the bus, gotten him to tell her what street sign he was looking at, and then gotten out of bed as fast as she could without putting on a bra, propelled by a horrible gut-wrenching sense of panic.

Mickey hadn’t picked up his phone when she’d called him and Mandy knew something was really wrong.

Ian hadn’t opened his eyes when she walked towards him or when she called his name. When she knelt down next to him on the sidewalk he’d stirred a little, muttering something under his breath before dropping his head back on to the bench. Mandy knows a lot about handling people who are blackout drunk (because she’s been there and Mickey’s been there and sometimes they’ve been there at the same time) but there was something about the way he was slumped over and how his eyes were flickering under his closed lids that scared her right to her core.

“You fucking asshole,” Mandy hadn’t known what else to say, or do. She checked his pulse, because that seemed like the kind of thing you do in this situation. “What the fuck happened, you fucking asshole?”

Ian hadn’t moved, so Mandy dug around in his pockets for his phone before finding it on the bench under his shoulder, and she’d called Lip. And she’d slid herself onto the bench so Ian’s head was in her lap, holding onto his cold knuckles with one hand and holding her shiv with the other, and waited.

Lip had showed up in ratty sweatpants and a day’s worth of stubble and together they’d maneuvered Ian into the car, only banging his knees a little on the door as they got him inside. And now Mandy is watching the dark, busy city pass by through her window and chewing on her thumbnail.

“You know what the fuck happened?” Lip asks. Mandy shakes her head.

“Something didn’t necessarily happen,” she feels obligated to point out. Lip gives her a look, which is probably well deserved. Something did happen. Mandy can just tell, somehow.

“I haven’t seen either of them all day,” she says quietly. “Mickey spent the night at Ian’s. He was fine yesterday.”

“Define fine.” Mandy gives Lip a look, which he seems to realize he deserves, because he sighs. “Shit. You know what I mean. Not like this. No obvious reasons for him to get high and wander around town on his own, I mean.”

That is true. Ian had seemed okay. A little jumpy and quiet, but alright. “You think he took something?” Mandy asks.

“He has before,” Lip says.

“Yeah.” Mandy tugs at her nail with her teeth. She’s worked most of the paint off the tip of it. “Fuck,” she says.

“Yeah,” Lip agrees. “I’ll drop you off? Thanks for, you know. Coming to get him. Calling me.”

Lip pulls up in front of their apartment complex a few minutes later; there’s a light on in the upstairs window and Mandy takes a deep breath as she opens the door, suddenly unbelievably angry at her brother for whatever he might have done, whatever happened. Her jaw is suddenly so tight that it aches.

“Have him give me a call when he wakes up,” she says over her shoulder, staring up at the yellow square of light in the dark block of apartments above her.

“Yeah, will do.” Lip says, and then Mandy closes the door. She glances through the passenger side window at Ian, asleep, and then climbs the stairs to the apartment, already picking out a few choice words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short!! the last three will be much longer i promise. only three left til this motherfucker is DONE. as always, thanks for reading!


	19. Part Four: iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Isn’t this supposed to feel good?” Ian says in a small voice. “Butterflies and sleepless nights and other metaphorical bullshit? I just feel sick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever listen to 'cry for judas' by the mountain goats on repeat and think about how much you love ian gallagher and mickey milkovich? 'some things you do just to see how bad they'll make you feel' 
> 
> content warnings for discussions of past abuse (not specifics) and mental illness and internalized homophobia. so the usual. also people do a lot of puking in this chapter? 
> 
> iangalager.tumblr.com

The Milkovich kids had each had a running list of places to hide out when Terry was pissed or the house was too crowded, good places to go to have a smoke and lie low for a while. Mandy’s had always been friend’s houses. Mickey’s had varied, mostly parks or places under the tracks. In a pinch, though, they’d all scramble for the bathroom, the only one with a lock that worked. A good place to jerk off in private or clean dirt out of your knuckles or just escape whatever was going on in the rest of the house for a minute without anyone asking what you were doing.

That’s where Mickey winds up, without even thinking about it.

Every nerve in his body is like a live wire as he yanks open their front door and almost falls through it. Mandy isn’t home and the lights are off; she left the front door unlocked for some reason. Their living room is too open and his feet carry him into the bathroom and then they give up on him. Mickey falls over, banging his elbow on the sink. He hardly feels it.

He can’t escape Ian’s face or Terry’s face or his own stupid words from earlier; they’re running in his head like they’re looped there. Stuck. He retches into the toilet, throwing up mostly water, but it’s so violent that his vision goes spotty and dizzy.

There’s a distant part of his brain that’s telling him very helpfully that he’s having a panic attack. Mickey can’t get enough of a handle on his breathing to begin to argue about how ridiculous this is.

Too much has happened in too short of a time and there’s this realization and Mickey can feel it on his chest like a weight. Ian’s face in his mind. That he is-- that he feels--

Mickey retches again, then takes a few very deep breaths, trying to force himself to breathe. He inhales, counts to eight, lets it out just as slow. His own heartbeat is so loud in his chest.

His face in the bathroom mirror when he manages to stand is almost unrecognizable. Pale and unshaven and ghostly. Mickey makes himself keep breathing, counting to eight, in and out, then turns on the faucet. He splashes water on his face, a cold shock, willing this to pass, trying to steer his train of thought in any other direction.

You couldn’t do it, he thinks. Couldn’t even prove yourself wrong. He’s fucked. He’s done in. And it’s not safe, not safe to feel this way but he can’t stop it, he can’t. Mickey feels his throat closing up again, struggles to hold on to his rhythm. In, count to eight. Breathe out.

“Mickey!” Mandy’s voice rings out, sharp, angry. It makes him jump, lose the number. She’s angry about something. At him. “Where the fuck are you? I know you’re here, you left the fucking door open!”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, just rests his head on the edge of the sink.

“What the fuck did you do, huh?” Mandy slams the front door shut, storms across the living room. “What the fuck happened? You better have a fucking good excuse for this, Mickey-- Jesus--” she’s stopped in front of the bathroom door and she looks like a whirlwind; face blotchy and red, hair untidy. She’s in her pajamas for some reason.

“Great,” she snaps. “You too, huh? What, you felt bad for yourself so you got throw-up drunk? Get out here and fucking tell me what happened. Do you know where I was? All the way across town, in the middle of the night, by myself. Cause Ian called me. Strung out and passed out on a park bench.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything. Mickey can’t bring himself to say anything. He turns his head and looks at his sister, her arms crossed over her chest and her mouth tight with anger and worry. There is nothing left in him to argue. She’s right.

“What the hell’s going on?” Mandy demands. “Mickey?” She takes another step forward into the bathroom and something in her face changes. Maybe it’s the expression on Mickey’s face that does it. “Jesus,” she says again, letting out a sharp breath. “Mickey. What’s wrong?”

“Is he--” the words feel like they’re being squeezed out of him.

“I don’t know,” Mandy says shortly. Her face is unreadable. “What’s going on?”

“I fucked up, I fucked everything up, I--” Mickey starts to push himself up and his legs feel like jello so all he really succeeds in doing is sliding awkwardly to the bathroom floor. It hopes, in vain, that maybe it’ll just open up and swallow him so he won’t have to deal with this or look Mandy in the face. “It’s not important, it’s too late now,” Mickey says.

“Jesus Christ will you just--” Mandy closes her mouth over her own words, takes a deep breath. “You can tell me. I know we don’t-- I mean-- you can. I wanna know.” She moves forward. Mickey watches her bare feet cross the linoleum floor and stop next to him. He rubs at his eyes with his palms, trying to swallow down the urge to run because there isn’t anywhere to run to.

“Mick,” Mandy starts to say.

“I’m gay,” Mickey blurts out.

There’s a beat of silence, so he glances up at his sister. Her eyebrows are in the air. “Uh,” she says, and her mouth works silently for a minute. “I--” another second of silence. “I mean, I know? I don’t mean to be, like, inconsiderate because you’re obviously really shook up but I’ve known that, for a while. For years. I-- I’m a little--” she’s floundering, which is understandable. Mickey tries to take a deep breath and his chest feels stinted and blocked up, his throat too small.

“It’s always been about fucking,” he says. “That’s what-- that’s what made me realize-- that’s how he found out--” he has no idea how to articulate this and he’s babbling but he doesn’t think he can stop. “It was always about who I want to fuck, that they were guys, didn’t matter who. That’s what it was. Who I wanted to get off with. But this isn’t that. It’s something else, it’s more.”

“Oh--” Mandy starts to say.

“That was enough, until now. You can hide it. If you need to. Nobody has to see if you’re careful. But this, you can’t. I don’t even know if I want to. I-- there’s all this stuff that I told myself I didn’t want, but I do-- and I-- I didn’t realize it until--”

“Oh, Mickey,” Mandy says softly, and her knees are bending and suddenly she’s sitting next to him on the bathroom floor. She presses her knees up to her chest. “I think you’re--”

“Don’t--” Mickey doesn’t know what he’ll do if she says it. In love with him.  His hands are shaking. Why are his goddamned hands shaking?

“But you are. Right? Did you just realize it?”

“I don’t want this--” Mickey snaps. “Don’t wanna feel like this. I don’t know how to do this without fucking it up. It’s too much, too--” he flounders, “open.”

Mandy reaches over and puts a hand on his knee, slowly, and her face is breaking his heart. He didn’t know his sister was able to look so sad.

“I guess it is,” she says slowly. “And it’s hard. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get used to it. People do.”

“What if I can’t?”

“So you want to.”

“Fuck,” Mickey says. There’s a part of him, the old, mean, cagey part that doesn’t. That’s so batshit scared, that only knows how to run and run and run. But there’s another part that Mickey doesn’t really know he even had that does. That wants to hold Ian Gallagher’s goddamned freckled hands. That wants to let love in.

He doesn’t know how to make them balance. He doesn’t know how to let them coexist. What if they can’t?

“It’s not easy for us,” Mandy squeezes his knee. Mickey looks at her fingers, at the black polish that’s coming off the tips of a few of them. “For me either. I get it.”

“I saw him,” Mickey says, and the words fall out of his mouth like they’re solid. Mandy’s fingernails dig into his knee. “Not really,” Mickey continues. “I mean, not for real. But I still did.”

Mandy’s grip doesn’t loosen but Mickey glances over at her and her eyes are searching his face. He can feel her breathing stopped up in her throat.

“It was just for a second. In a group of people I didn’t know. But he was there, and then he was gone, and--” Mickey is sure of a sudden that he’s going to cry and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s filled with shame, flooded with it. That he can’t make it stop, that he’s going to cry in front of his little sister. He’s supposed to take care of her. Not the other way around. He rubs his hands over his face furiously. Mandy has one hand over her mouth.

“I dream about him,” she says, a little muffled. Mickey knows she does. He’s never heard her admit it. “I kinda thought it would maybe get better. Sometimes it’s fine, you know, and sometimes-- it’s not.”

He grabs at her hand, the one over her mouth, and holds it, like he used to when they’d walk to school together in the mornings, under the direction of their mother. He’d promised his mom to watch out for Mandy, the kind of promise you make in passing when your mom says “Have a good day! Keep an eye out for her!” And he hadn’t kept it.

“Yeah,” he says, and he hates him. Terry. This thing they’re still dragging behind them. “I don’t know how the fuck to shake it.” His voice is thick. “Do you think it’ll ever--”

Mandy blinks furiously, her top lip curling up in anger even as she squeezes her eyes shut. It’s been a long time since Mickey’s seen his sister cry.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know if you ever can, really. I think we just gotta keep going, Mickey, we gotta just keep going. I don’t know if it ever stops. It just gets farther away.”

“Great,” Mickey says with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “Real reassuring.”

“You fucking asked,” Mandy pinches him, her voice breaking a little. Her nose is running and her face is blotchy and Mickey loves her so, so much.

“Means we’re never gonna run out of heavy source material for song lyrics,” Mickey says. Mandy blinks at him and then starts laughing and Mickey starts laughing too because this scene is so ridiculous, the two of them sitting on the bathroom floor in a dark apartment, crying and laughing at the same time. Mandy in her pajamas. Mickey laughs until his stomach hurts, until he knows that she’s right. Of course she’s right. But that also doesn’t mean they can get away with hiding in the dark forever. At some point he’ll have to leave the bathroom and deal with the mess he’s made. Something, a resolution, is crystallizing inside him, something harder and brighter than anything else. He owes it to Mandy, because they got out of it and they’re moving forward and they survived. He owes it to his mom. Maybe even to himself.

“I don’t wanna let him win,” he says quietly, and Mandy’s laugh dries up and she turns to look at him. “Let him beat me. Not this time.”

Mandy’s smile is small in her blotchy and wet face, but it’s there.

“I don’t know how, though,” Mickey continues. “I ruined it. Maybe on purpose. So it doesn’t even matter.”

Mandy wipes her face with her sleeve. “I doubt it,” she says. “That you ruined it. You had a fight. It happens. Means you gotta suck it up and apologize.”

“I said some really bad shit.”

“Did you mean it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then tell him that. Tell him the truth.”

“Which is what, since you seem to know everything?” Mickey teases. Mandy pokes him in the chest.

“That you’ve got a big gay crush,” she says. The way she says it, it doesn’t sound bad.

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. Exhaustion settles over him like a lead blanket. He’s done more talking this summer than he ever has the rest of his life combined. He doesn’t like it. It’s too much work.

“If you’re hungover for this show tomorrow I’m gonna kick your ass,” Mandy says.

“Fuck.”

Mandy leans her head against his shoulder and Mickey rests his head on her hair and they sit there for a while, the two of them together, both a flesh-and-blood reminder that they’re here and not there.Together. Mickey holds on to that bright thought in his mind as hard as he can and even lets himself hope, just a little, that it might work out.

* * *

 

Ian’s first thought when he wakes up is that he’s dead. He’s died, and he’s in hell, and hell smells like Lip’s smelly gym socks and feels like being stabbed in the face with something hot and pointy.

When he opens his eyes he realizes that the gym sock smell is true to life, because he’s lying on Lip’s couch, and that feeling like somebody is mercilessly steam-cleaning his frontal lobe is a hangover.

This is all quickly followed by the horrible need to throw up. Ian almost launches himself over the back of the couch and makes it into the bathroom just in time to avoid vomiting all over the carpet. He rests his forehead on the cold linoleum floor of the bathroom for a minute after he’s done, because the memories of what exactly happened yesterday have all come rushing back along with his lunch.

Behind him, Lip’s bedroom door opens and there’s the sound of running water and the coffee maker. Ian sighs, hauls himself up off the floor, and rinses his mouth out with water from the sink before walking in to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” Lip says as Ian shambles out of the bathroom. The clock on the microwave announces that it’s six am. Ian squints at it, then grunts something indistinct in his brother’s direction and Lip chuckles and pours him a cup. “How you feeling?”

“Like death,” Ian mumbles into his cup. “Like my hangover is driving a truck over the inside of my brain. I don’t even remember how I got here.”

“You called Mandy, she called me.” Lip stirs sugar into his coffee. “What’d you take?”

Ian sighs. “An entire bottle of vodka. Don’t give me that look, that’s all.”

“So just regular old Gallagher therapy then,” Lip makes a wry face and sips his coffee.

“We should sign up for some kind of nature versus nurture case study.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Lip’s question feels loaded and it probably is, because they both know Ian doesn’t always tell even Lip everything. Ian knows it’s a fault of his (a few months of therapy have pointed this out, usually followed by “You are allowed to trust the people in your life with your problems, you aren’t a burden”) and he’s somewhat surprised by the fact that he does want to talk to Lip, even if Lip’s advice is usually questionable at best. Ian should probably still be mad at Lip from the other week, but his desire to just spill everything that’s on his mind outweighs that by a lot. It’s an almost childlike sentiment that Ian hasn’t really felt for a long time, if ever: if he tells his big brother his problems, he’ll find a way to fix them. It’s silly, and something that has repeatedly been proven not to be true, but Ian still feels it.

“Mickey and I broke up,” he says. “If we were-- I mean-- apparently we weren’t ever together at all.”

“Seemed like you were,” Lip says, his voice carefully neutral.

“I thought so too,” Ian says. “Guess I got it wrong.”

“Why?”

And Ian tells him, about their fight at the bar and their fight at the zoo and what Mickey had said and how he’d walked away. “I pushed him,” Ian finishes tiredly. “I pushed him into telling me the truth and it wasn’t what I thought it was. I thought things were alright and I was wrong, probably from the beginning, and now it’s all gone to shit.”

“You think he was just leading you on?”

“He made it pretty clear from the beginning, really, and I just wanted it to be something else. I don’t know--” Ian shakes his head, trying to clear it, trying to get everything to fall into place in a way that makes sense. “I thought there was an explanation for it, him always pushing me away, and that it would let up if I could just be patient enough or something.”

“It’s not your fault he flipped out,” Lip says.

“But it is!” Ian insists. Lip is frowning at him and Ian can’t sit still so he gets up from the table and paces around it. “This is what always happens with me, Lip. With everything. I’m too much for anyone to handle, I’m too intense, I scare people off. I know I do. I should never have even gotten involved with this, I should have known right from the beginning that this wasn’t gonna end well.”

Lip stares at him, frowning a little, and Ian knows its because his brother knows its true. There’s no reason and no point in his denying it because it’s true. Nobody will ever want to take this on willingly, Ian plus baggage. It’s too heavy and he’s no good at carrying it without spilling it all over everything else.

“It’s not your fault,” Lip repeats. “Him acting like a dick.”

Ian paces the length of Lip’s small kitchen, then walks back, makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m fucking pissed at him too,” he says. “That he didn’t even wanna try, that he couldn’t even look at me! It’s not worth it. I’m fucking tired of it. I’m tired. I’ll give him what he wants. Let him feel like he’s won, or whatever. I don’t need it. I don’t want to see him again.”

“So you’re just gonna avoid him for the rest of your life?” Lip asks wryly.

“Maybe,” Ian snaps sourly.

“So, quit your job, move, never talk to Mandy again?”

“Shut up,” Ian says. “No. I’m just through with it. I probably made it all up, anyway. It doesn’t fucking matter!”

Lip doesn’t speak for a long moment, then he takes his cigarette out of his mouth. “You just said all of that,” he says, “but what I heard was ‘I really care about someone and he cares about me and it’s scaring me out of my fucking mind, so as soon as stuff gets difficult I’m running instead of dealing with it.’”

Ian is so flabbergasted he takes a step backwards. He has to metaphorically scoop his jaw up off the floor before he can say anything, and the only thing he can get out is, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Lip shrugs. “I thought that was pretty clear?”

“What’s pretty clear is that Mickey doesn’t give a shit about me--” Ian’s words can’t seem to leave his mouth fast enough, “and-- and I’m not running from anything-- and-- and who the fuck are you to give me relationship advice, huh? Look at your track record!”

“That last one’s a fair point,” Lip laughs. “But really, I think my track record in fucking relationships up means I’m pretty good at spotting when people are purposefully trying to do it.”

“I’m not fucking anything up!” Ian snaps. “Did you hear anything I just told you? I didn’t make him say that shit to me and all it proves it that it was probably all in my head anyway. Either I made it up or he’s finally seeing what I’m really like and wants to get the fuck out while he can.”

“You didn’t make it up,” Lip says, firmly enough that Ian can almost, almost believe him. “How he feels about you is pretty damn obvious. I mean, Jesus, I really thought he was gonna jump me the other day, for you. He’s done in, and I know you are too.”

“If he’s so done in then what happened yesterday, Doctor Phil?” Ian’s head hurts, more insistently than it did when he’d gotten out of bed.

“It hasn’t crossed your mind that he’s scared too?” Lip says.

“I--” Ian can’t argue with that because all of a sudden the mean, cagey look that had been on Mickey’s face is clear in his mind. Angry sure, saying thing that would be sure to make Ian mad too. On the offensive to defend against a moment of vulnerability.

“I’m bad at relationships because I’m bad at compromise and I fuck ‘em up in the end, but I’ve been where you are now often enough to know how terrifying it is to feel like that for someone. You’ve never felt like this before, have you?” Lip says.

Ian shakes his head slowly. He’d thought he had. He’d told himself he’d been in love with a few people a couple times, because it had seemed like the right thing to be. But he hadn’t been. Not really. Not til now. The thought is dizzying. Ian leans backwards heavily on the counter, afraid for a second he’s going to throw up again.

“I’m not saying he should’ve said that shit to you, and if it had been me I’d have hit him, and I’m not saying there isn’t a giant pile of shit you’re gonna have to work out. But do you really just want to give up?”

“Isn’t this supposed to feel good?” Ian says in a small voice. “Butterflies and sleepless nights and other metaphorical bullshit? I just feel sick.”

“Is that the vodka?” Lip asks. Ian glares at him. “It’s sorta soul crushing,” Lip says. “But you’ve been happy. I can tell.”

“I don’t think it’s fixable,” Ian says. “If I go track him down and apologize, then what? How do I know he’s gonna forgive me? I don’t even know if he fucking feels anything for me at all. And what if he does? What if everything works out the way you seem to think it will, and you’re totally right. I’m still gonna be fucked up and he doesn’t deserve to deal with this. So what if I’m scared? Maybe I’ve got a good reason to be, have you taken that into consideration?”

“You gotta cut yourself some slack, man,” Lip says.

“Why?” Ian demands.

Lip chews on his thumbnail and stares at Ian over his folded hands; he looks serious in a way that only Lip can. “Look,” he says after a minute. “Um. I’m gonna say something, and you can hit me after if you want because it’s not gonna be the nicest thing I’ve ever said to you--” Ian snorts, because he can recall some of the mean things Lip has said to him over the years, “-- but I gotta. It’s been on my mind for a while and I gotta.”

“I’m sure it’s one of those things you and Fiona talk about when you sit around and talk about me, huh?” Ian says, and he can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. Lip sighs.

“It’s not like you and I don’t do the same thing about Fiona sometimes. And I’m sure you and Fiona sit around and talk about me. We’re family. We worry about each other.”

“I get the feeling there’s a lot more worrying on Fiona’s end than either of ours.”

“We know you’ve been through some shit in the last year, man,” Lip says.

“Are you gonna actually get to the point or what?”

“I’m getting there, okay? Look. Ian.” Lip taps cigarette ash into the tray on the table and runs his hands through his hair like he does when he’s nervous about something. “Three of us-- you me and Fee-- I know all three of us are bat shit scared that we’re gonna end up anything like them. Frank and Monica.” Ian turns around so fast he hits Lip’s kitchen chair with his elbow and almost topples it. This wasn’t what he expected to hear at all. Lip returns his cigarette to his mouth and keeps talking. “It’s different for Debs and Carl and Liam, cause they weren’t around or don’t remember how bad things really were when Monica took off that first time. But us-- fuck, I know I’m scared of it.”

There’s a lump working its way into Ian’s throat and he swallows around it. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

“The day I graduated high school,” Lip continues, “Frank and I got drunk together, snuck into a fancy restaurant and ran out on the bill. And he looked at me and said he was proud of me, and that I was gonna be just like him. I wasn’t really gonna go to college until he said that. I know Fiona’s scared of it, that any lapse in responsibility will mean genetics win out over judgement. I think we’re all old enough that we’re free and clear, but I worry about it. You do too, don’t you.”

“Lip--” Ian starts, then stops, then shakes his head. “You don’t have any idea what I’m scared of. You don’t understand.”

“Sure I do,” Lip says matter-of-factly. “Not specifically no, I don’t have any idea what it feels like to deal with the shit you have to deal with. But I do know that just because I’ve got a criminal record and can pull off a scam in ten minutes under pressure doesn’t mean I’m Frank, so having bipolar disorder doesn’t mean you’re Monica.”

“Shut up,” Ian snaps. He can feel anger building up like pressure on the inside of his head and it would be so easy to act on it but he forces it down, forces himself to breathe heavily out through his nose.

“Hit me after, like I said,” Lip, as usual, doesn’t know when to shut up. He never knows when to shut up. “Ian. You gotta stop punishing yourself for the thing she did to us. You’re not her. You’re not gonna end up like her.”

“How do you know?” Ian snaps. “How can you have any idea, huh? You don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to have this-- this shit-- in your head and you don’t know what it’s like to know that you share it with the woman who ruined our lives and abandoned us over and over again because she couldn’t handle it and you don’t know how it feels to be scared every day that maybe you can’t either, so just shut up.”

When he stops he feels a little lightheaded so he leans up against the counter, banging his elbow in the process. Lip is staring at him, his face unreadable.

“Ian, Monica didn’t run out on us because she’s bipolar,” he says finally. “I mean, okay, that definitely didn’t help, but she ran out on us because she’s a shitty human being who doesn’t care about her family. She never did anything to help herself because the way she felt was more important than her family’s well-being. She doesn’t care about us. You do.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” the lump in Ian’s throat is larger and tighter and his voice feels very small. “When I-- when I took off and things were really bad, that’s what made sense. Monica’s not trustworthy. I’ve always wanted to be. But I took off too.”

“Who cares about that? The important this is you came home.”

The lump in Ian’s throat abruptly moves higher and he knows suddenly that he’s going to cry, which is ridiculous and pretty childish but there isn’t much he can do to stop it. Lip’s still watching him with that intense expression on his face that Ian usually associates with bad news. It means he’s trying really hard to be sincere.

“You aren’t that much like her at all,” Lip says. “Except for the bipolar thing. You’re about as similar to her as I am to Frank and let’s face it, we both got lucky.”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure you got Frank’s shitty sense of humor,” Ian manages.

“Hey!” Lip says. “That was pretty low.” Ian throws a crumpled up paper towel at him. “Look. Shit gets rough, alright. You have a hard time, alright. You got us to help you. And you got us to hold you accountable too. We’re not gonna let you do this stuff on your own, dickhead, no matter how fucked up it might get.”

Ian knuckles at his eyes and feels overwhelmingly grateful for his brother, smoking habit, bad sense of humor, questionable life decisions and all.

“So you have got to cut this sad hermit crap out, alright? Because if there’s anyone I know who will not take any shit lying down, it’s Mickey Milkovich.”

“Not unless he wants to,” Ian says before he can stop himself.

“I didn’t need to know that,” Lip says quickly and Ian can’t keep in his laugh.

“This is a one-time thing, okay?” Ian says. “You’re not allowed to turn every time I ask you for advice into a family therapy session, got it?”

“I think I effectively killed that part of me for good,” Lip shakes his head. “My good advice is a once in a lifetime gift. So you better fucking listen! His gig’s tonight, right?”

“Yeah.” Ian frowns. “You think I should go?”

“Sure do,” Lip says. “I’ll come with.”

“I don’t know,” Ian starts, but Lip cuts him off.

“You gotta!” He insists. “Trust me on this one.”

“It might not fix anything,” Ian says.

“Ian,” Lip says. “If he’s gonna prove you wrong, you gotta give him the opportunity.”

“I don’t know,” Ian says again, and Lip frowns. “I’ll nap on it.”

“And shower, please,” Lip says, and Ian flips him off, and shuffles into the other room to lie down on the couch, and breathes out for a long, long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to change folk band au's name. it's now called 'WEIRD HEART TO HEARTS, ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION, ALSO SOME PEOPLE PLAY MUSIC SOMETIMES MAYBE?'
> 
> oh, and a little sidenote. ian and lip's conversation doesn't really reflect my feelings on monica (my feelings on monica are a lot more complicated than this) but i do think they reflect theirs. i felt a little bit bad about the mean things i wrote lip to say in earlier chapters, so he gets to offer some good advice.


	20. Part Four: iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> second to last chapter! started from the bottom now we're here

Mickey wakes up when the sun comes up, with a headache and Mandy’s elbow in his stomach. He experiences a moment of almost dizzying disorientation when he opens his eyes and tries to figure out who’s elbow it is and why the pillow he’s got his head on is leopard print, until Mandy rolls over and mumbles something that sounds like a curse word into her arm.

He has no missed messages on his phone. This isn’t really a surprise, since he’s been asleep for maybe five hours tops. It still makes his stomach hurt. He pulls up a number on the screen and his thumb hovers over the green call button for a minute before he makes himself press it. Only after he’s pressed the phone to his ear does he remember that it’s only seven a.m., and he nearly hangs up but by the time he’s lowering his hand the voice message is kicking in.

“Hey, you’ve reached Ian, I’m not around right now but leave me a message--”

Mickey doesn’t leave a message. He doesn’t know what he’d say if he did. He makes himself get out of bed, brushes his teeth and washes his face and shoves his feet into his shoes.

Mandy is starting to sit up by the time he’s opening the front door. She blinks at him, sleepily, her hair a mess. “Where the hell are you going?” She asks, sleepy alarm creeping in to her voice. “Mick-- we have shit to do, we have to be at the gig in five hours--”

“I know, alright?” Mickey snaps. “I won’t be long.”

Mandy rolls her eyes, lays back down. “Better not be,” she mumbles, and Mickey leaves the house. He locks the door behind him and heads for the El.

Ian’s apartment is locked, the window looking in to the kitchen dark. Mickey knocks a few times, vigorously, then hesitates. Ian will probably be pretty mad if Mickey picks the lock on his front door, but the alternative (Ian inside and unable, for whatever reason, to answer), is almost worse.

The apartment is empty though, the bed neatly made and not slept in. Mickey curses to himself for a few seconds, standing in Ian’s bedroom in the dark, and then he locks the door and leaves, and gets back on the train.

Of course it couldn’t be simple. Of course.

* * *

 

Mickey’s old neighborhood is pretty quiet before seven in the morning. Most of the lights in the houses are out, the streets aren’t busy and nobody really even glances his way as he walks from his stop to the Gallagher house by himself.

Fiona Gallagher is sitting on the front steps of her house without any shoes on, a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She stands when Mickey opens the gate and walks towards the door.

“Ian here?” Mickey asks brusquely after she says hello. Fiona frowns.

“Nope,” Fiona shakes her head so her long ponytail slides from her right shoulder to her left. “Hasn’t been around in a couple days. Why?”

“Need to talk to him about something,” Mickey says heavily, and gets ready to turn and walk back down the porch steps.

“Is he okay?” Fiona’s voice gets a shade sharper, her eyebrows raising. “You’d tell me if he wasn’t okay, right?” She has the kind of voice you don’t walk away from, a no-bullshit, beat-your-ass voice. Mickey stops.

“He’s fine,” he says. “Or was last time I saw him.”

“You had a fight, didn’t you?” Fiona asks.

“None of your business is what it is,” Mickey snaps automatically. Fiona sips her coffee, one of her eyebrows still raised. Mickey sighs.

“Okay, yeah,” Mickey says. Fuck sisters and their knowing looks. “We did. Sort of. I wanted to talk to him about him before this big fucking gig tonight but he wasn’t home and he ain’t answering my calls.”

“So you just hopped on a bus at seven am to see if he was here?” Fiona asks. Mickey glowers at her. Fiona watches him for another minute, then sets her coffee up on the porch railing. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee,” she says. “It is the ass crack of dawn and you look like you need one.”

“Nah, I really gotta--” Mickey tries, but she cuts him off by opening the front door and stepping through it.

“Milk and sugar?” Fiona calls over her shoulder.

“Yeah, okay. Both, please,” Mickey sighs, and sits down on the porch. Fiona comes out a minute later, handing him a warm mug. It is a good cup of coffee, and he did need it. “You’re not gonna trick me into some kind of cheesy heart-to-heart,” Mickey says, pulling out a cigarette. “It’s too damn early for that shit.”

Fiona laughs. “I’ve got way too many brothers to even try,” she says. “And anyway, I don’t really need to do I?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who gets up before seven am for just anybody,” Fiona says, and offers Mickey her lighter. Grudgingly, Mickey takes it, lights his cigarette and hands it back. The porch is in the sun and it’s warm on his arms and they sit and sip their coffee for a minute in silence.

“You got no clue where else I could look for him?” Mickey asks finally. Fiona shrugs.

“I can give him a call, if you want. It’ll probably piss him off though. Ian does stuff on his own time, always has. Gets mad when I meddle.” Mickey snorts. “I’m always finding out stuff about him after it happens- when they were kids sometimes I wouldn’t know Lip and Ian were fighting til they’d come home with black eyes.”

Privately, Mickey thinks that if he’d had to grow up with Lip Gallagher as an older brother, Lip Gallagher would probably have had a black eye every day of his life.

“Probably should have meddled more,” Fiona says, apparently not noticing his silence. “ I wonder, sometimes, if I should have done more, if I really fucked up with Ian.”

Mickey blinks at her; this conversation is quickly swinging into territory he is not comfortable with. “He, uh. Turned out okay, if you ask me.”

Fiona laughs again. “Yeah, he did,” she says. “They’re good kids. Ah, I don’t know. I just wonder if I should have noticed something, you know. If that would’ve made this year easier on him. Worried more. I never worried about him, always just assumed--” she stops abruptly and downs the dregs of her coffee. “Jesus, sorry. That’s more info than you’d ever possibly want about us, huh?”

“You all love to fucking talk,” Mickey says, and Fiona grins at him.

“Yeah. Downside of getting involved with a Gallagher. You don’t just get one, you get seven. And all our baggage.”

“I’m getting used to it,” Mickey says.

“That’s how I know Ian likes you, though,” Fiona continues, looking suddenly mischievous. “The fact that he even mentioned you to me at all.” She stands up. “I gotta go to work. Leave your coffee cup in the kitchen when you’re done, will you?” The door opens and closes behind Mickey, and he takes a minute to finish his cup of coffee before getting up himself.

Debbie Gallagher is standing in the kitchen pouring herself cereal when Mickey sets his empty mug in the sink. She glances up at him and Mickey raises his eyebrows in greeting, but stops when she clears her throat. Out of the collection of Gallaghers that Mickey has met, she looks the most like Ian, with her thick red hair and abundance of freckles. Hers are a lot more prominent than his.

“Ian’s at Lip’s,” she says. “If you’re looking for him.”

“Were you eavesdropping?” Mickey asks. Debbie grins a little guiltily. Her grin is a lot like Ian’s too. Mickey has heard a lot about he but he really hasn’t talked to her, and he’s surprised to find that he likes her immediately.

“Maybe,” she says. “Force of habit, really. I’m also not an idiot. You definitely didn’t come over to listen to Fiona talk.”

“Fair enough,” Mickey concedes.

“Lip called me this morning,” Debbie closes the box of cereal and puts it back in the cupboard. “Said Ian was kinda fucked up.”

“He okay?” Mickey can’t stop himself from asking, rubbing at his mouth with his fingers.

“Think so,” Debbie says. “Lip said they’re gonna talk it out. Are you okay?’

Mickey frowns at her. He doesn’t really want to think about what Ian might be telling Lip about him, maybe right now. “Yeah, I feel like skipping through a field of fucking flowers,” he says.

“Eat my ass,” Debbie says, and this is so unexpected that Mickey laughs in spite of himself.

“You definitely keep you with your brothers, huh?”

“More like they keep up with me,” Debbie says. Mickey holds up his hands, like an apology. Debbie rolls her eyes a little.

“I, uh, I fucked up,” Mickey says after a minute, and Debbie looks at him in surprise. “And I feel like shit about it. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m no good at any of this.” He turns towards the door; he might like Debbie fine but he really, really isn’t up for another conversation about his feelings, especially with another Gallagher. “See you around,” he tells Debbie.

“You have your big radio gig tonight, right?” Debbie says, not acknowledging that Mickey said goodbye. She pulls a spoon out of a drawer and walks past him to sit down at the kitchen table.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey says. He stops in his tracks.

“Ian’ll show up,” Debbie says, like there’s no doubt in her mind that this is the truth.

“Did he tell you he would?” Mickey drops into the chair across from her. Debbie shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “But he will.”

“How the hell do you know?”

Debbie looks at him pointedly. “I just know,” she says. “He likes you. And he’s a big soppy romantic. He’ll show.”

“If you say so,” Mickey says.

“Trust me,” Debbie smiles at him, her hair a bright curtain of red-gold on her shoulders in the sunshine. Her eyes are pretty and green, and very serious.

“Okay,” Mickey says finally, because he does. “Alright.”

Debbie smiles at him and takes a bite of her cereal, and Mickey gets up to go catch the bus back home, wondering if all women come with some kind of intuitive sixth sense thing, or if its just the ones with stubborn brothers.

* * *

 

Mandy is awake when Mickey gets home. She’s in Mickey’s bedroom, digging through his closet, and Svetlana is leaning against the bedroom door watching her toss his belongings out of the closet door and onto the floor and his bed.

“Yo!” Mickey shouts, as a pair of his jeans flies through the air. “Give a guy some privacy will you?”

“Lost cause,” Svetlana says. “Could not stop her.”

“You didn’t even try,” Mickey says, and Svetlana shrugs.

“You find orange boy?” She asks. Mickey glares at her.

“I don’t need you two to dissect my life,” he says.

Svetlana makes a sympathetic noise and reaches out to squeeze Mickey’s shoulder. It’s a less-than-brusque gesture, a little unusual for her, and Mickey is grateful for it even as he pushes past her to stop Mandy from reaching some of the more sensitive contents of his closet.

Mandy is ransacking his belongings because she has every intention of deciding what exactly he’s going to wear to the gig, including how she thinks he should do his hair (Svetlana attacks him with a comb and hair gel when Mickey finally gets Mandy to leave his room and go get dressed herself). Mandy’s in the middle of artfully smudging her eyeliner when her phone rings, and she dashes onto the porch in nothing but black jeans and a bra to answer it. Through the glass window Mickey hears her shout “You’re a fucking dick!” which makes him sure she’s talking to Ian.

His stomach does a somersault, and Svetlana squeezes his shoulder again.

They’re due to start their set at two thirty on the dot so they pile into a cab around eleven, the three of them and a giant collection of instruments and several boxes of their merch to sell before and after they play. It’s taking place at a venue Mickey’s gone to see shows at but never played at, medium-sized and close to downtown. There’s a giant banner over the entrance with the name of the radio station and, underneath it, the names of the bands performing. “Mandy and the Misdemeanors” is right in the middle. The thought had largely been forgotten in the last horrible 24 hours, but Mickey lets himself feel momentarily very proud that they’re here at all. A year ago, he wouldn’t have believed it. Four years ago, he’d had laughed until he was sick.

They’re greeting by the most frenzied-looking stagehand Mickey has ever seen, a young woman who keeps shouting things into a walkie-talkie and interrupting herself as she tries to give them information.

“You’ll have time for a sound check-- all on that schedule, there, see? Hand off your equipment to Victoria, she’ll get it on stage for you. HEY VICTORIA!” Victoria, a middle-aged lady with bright purple hair, dashes over with two stagehands in black shirts, who collect their amps and Mandy’s keyboard. “Show them to their dressing room, will you? Thanks--” and she dashes away.

“We’ve been at it since seven am,” Victoria says, as Mandy and Mickey both blink at the other woman’s departure. “Lots of details. Let’s see-- your merch table’s in the hallway there, and you can follow me to your dressing room.”

“We’ve never played anything quite like this,” Mandy says. “We’ve never played anywhere with our own dressing room.”

“You’ll be great,” Victoria leads them down a hallway, stopping in front of a door with a printed piece of paper that reads MANDY AND THE MISDEMEANORS. “Here you are! They’ll give you IFBs during the soundcheck, don’t worry about that, just be where it says you should on this schedule--” she hands Mickey a piece of paper, “and it’ll be fine!” She walks away.

“Jesus,” Mickey takes a deep breath, setting his guitar down. While it’s true that they’ve never been given a bonafide dressing room with their name on the door before, it’s still tiny. There’s a table with a round mirror against one wall, framed with round lightbulbs, and Mickey pulls a face at his reflection. He doesn’t look as rough as he thought he would. He actually looks okay, all in black with his hair slicked back.

“Take a picture of us in front of the door!” Mandy demands of Svetlana, and Mickey poses obligingly as Svetlana snaps a couple of photos on Mandy’s phone, the two of them with the paper sign between them.

“Enough!” he says finally, as Mandy starts pulling faces. “I’m gonna go get a beer.”

“We go sell shirts,” Svetlana lets Mandy pull her over to the door to take a photo of their faces squished together. Mickey leaves them, wanders back down the hallway and into the venue itself.

The event had kicked off at ten so there’s a band onstage already, a truly horrible reggae wannabe group complete with unfortunate white-boy dreads. The room is about half-full. Even so, Mickey can tell it’s a much bigger crowd than they usually get. The band is set up on a low stage, only raised a few feet off the floor, and the crowd stretches out away from the stage in a rough semicircle.

Mickey has to stand in line for a few minutes to get his beer and he watches the band wrap up. When they do, a DJ set up at a table right next to the stage starts talking, and his voice echoes around the venue.

“Let’s give them another round of applause,” he’s saying, and the crowd whistles and claps. “Coming up after this commercial break--” Mickey tunes him out when he orders his beer, which he pays way too much for. He glowers at it, but drinks it anyway, feeling jittery and uncomfortable as he pushes through the crowd to find Mandy and Svetlana at their merch table. This would be a big deal on any way, the radio exposure, the big crowd, but today it’s even worse. He thinks about skipping out for half a second but decides quickly that he prefers life, as Mandy really will kill him, probably with a hammer.

Debbie Gallagher better be right, that’s all.

That thought makes him even more nervous as he realizes he doesn’t really have a plan as far as what he’s going to say to Ian if Ian does show. He tries to mull this over as he sits down next to Svetlana, who is setting out stacks of CD’s, but he doesn’t seem to be able to come up with anything.

Really fucking ironic, Mickey thinks. You’re a songwriter and you can’t think of a single goddamned thing to say.

They do their soundcheck in a little room behind the stage at two, most of which involves a stagehand running a wire up the back of Mickey’s shirt that’s attached to an earpiece. It lets Mickey hear the voice of the DJ, who is talking through commercial breaks and giving directions to bands, as well as the voice of a producer somewhere else in the building who is counting off times and shouting irritated-sounding instructions. It’s way too official and it makes Mickey’s palms sweat, and the closer it gets to two thirty the more nervous he feels.

Finally, at five minutes to two thirty, the band before them finishes and the station goes into another commercial break, and Mandy and Mickey are ushered out into the wings behind the stage. Mandy reapplies her lipstick and reaches over and touches Mickey’s hand, his fingers wrapped around the neck of his guitar.

“Ready?” she asks. She’s nervous too, wiggling her foot up and down. She keeps running her fingers over her hair.

“As I’ll ever be,” Mickey says. He takes a very deep breath, and then the stagehands are motioning to them and he follows Mandy out on to the stage.

The crowd is much bigger than it had been earlier in the day and they applaud as the DJ says “And now give it up for Mandy and the Misdemeanors!” Mandy stops at one microphone and Mickey at the other and somehow his nervousness is evaporating a little because he’s onstage with Mandy and this is what they’re good at. Somehow. He starts to smile a little as Mandy glances over to him, and then she counts them in and they start the first song.

They sound good in the big space. Really good.

The first song ends and Mandy takes a second to introduce them. “I’m Mandy,” she says, “and this is Mickey, and we are really really excited to be here!” The crowd is excited too, probably drunk but also excited, because they’re applauding. “Thanks to all of you for coming out this afternoon!” Mandy says, and Mickey takes a second to glance out across the crowd, his eyes seeking anything that might be a head of bright red hair.

He comes up empty.

Ian isn’t here.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pounds chest] MICKEY DEBBIE FRIENDSHIP


	21. Part Four: v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re a good halfway through their set, getting ready to go back on after a ten-minute commercial break, when Mickey glances across the room and sees him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iangalager.tumblr.com

They’re a good halfway through their set, getting ready to go back on after a ten-minute commercial break, when Mickey glances across the room and sees him.

During the break, Mickey had chainsmoked a few cigarettes in the back of the venue and then pushed his way back through the crowd, keeping his eyes peeled. He’d seen someone, tall and redhaired, that from behind he had sworn was Ian and his heart had leapt up. But the man had turned around to reveal it was someone else. So, Mickey had gotten back up onstage with Mandy, returned his guitar and is waving to understand he knows they’ve got three minutes left, when he sees him. Ian is coming into the venue all the way across the room, all of his siblings in tow. Ian glances up and they make eye contact, like they made eye contact from across the bar at the beginning of the summer, and the feeling in Mickey’s chest is the same somehow: bewilderingly overwhelming.

He starts to turn and hop off the stage but Mandy catches his collar. “Where are you going?” She asks. “Oh-- we’re on in two minutes Mickey!”

“Fuck--” Mickey decides to give up any hopes of pretense or subtlety or aloofness, and he waves his hands at Ian. From across the room, he can tell Ian raises his eyebrows. Mickey makes a ‘come here’ gesture with his hands, mouthing it at the same time and, unbelievably, Ian starts to push his way through the crowd towards them. Mickey watches his head get closer and closer through the packed room but it’s taking too long and he can practically feel the seconds ticking down as Ian elbows his way through a knot of teenaged boys and politely maneuvers around a few older ladies.

He’s maybe ten feet away from the front of the stage when Mickey can’t take it anymore: he takes a few steps forward to the very edge of the stage, hoping to at least be able to call to him over the crowd. He has no idea what he’s going to say. It doesn’t matter. It’ll be enough to just get Ian’s attention. He waves his hands again a little desperately, probably looking more like a chicken flapping around onstage than a musician. He doesn’t care.

Ian is still trying to reach the front of the stage and seems to be waylaid behind a group of jumping teenagers. He blinks up at Mickey, his face obviously confused, which makes sense because Mickey is perched on the edge of the tiny stage waving his hands in the air. He probably looks like a lunatic.

“Hey!” Mandy, behind him, bends forward. “We have a minute, stand up!”

“I need--” Mickey trails off. This is absolutely the worst time but he has to, he feels like he’ll explode if he doesn’t do something. Ian has reached the front of the stage and is staring up at him with his arms crossed and Mickey has to do something.

“It’s gonna have to wait, Mickey!” Mandy hisses rather desperately, and Mickey knows she’s right. He makes a ‘wait’ gesture to Ian, who is still staring up at him like he isn’t sure what to do. He shrugs, and they really only have thirty seconds left so Mickey hauls himself up and back to his microphone. Mandy glances over at him, her face a combination of irritation and sympathy, and as Mickey looks at her he’s struck by a sudden idea.

“Mands,” he says away from the mic, “we gotta change the set list.”

“What?” She squawks. “Why? Are you--”

“We have to,” Mickey says.

“No-- don’t be stupid,” Mandy snaps. “Throw weeks of rehearsal out the window? What the fuck do you wanna add anyway? No, no way--”

“I need this, Mandy, c’mon,” Mickey pleads, and he’s never really begged for anything in his life like this but if she doesn’t say yes he has no idea what he’ll do. Just fuck it all and jump off stage, maybe. Have a heart attack and die.

Understanding crawls across her face as he hoped it would and she frowns, then seems to make up her mind.

“Jesus. Okay,” she says decisively, “but if you fuck this up we’re gonna be Mandy and the Unrecognizable Corpses.” Then she grins, and Mickey wishes he could hug her.  

“Ten seconds,” the DJ’s voice crackles in Mickey’s earpiece, and he and Mandy both turn back to their mics and Mandy favors the room with a huge grin. The DJ makes a few announcements, reintroduces them, and Mandy leans forward.

This is the stupidest Mickey has ever done. He has done many, many, many stupid things and this one wins. So it better fucking work.

“Thanks for being here!” She says. “We’re Mandy and the Misdemeanors, it is a huge, huge honor to be playing for you all tonight!” The crowd cheers. Ian, in the front row, claps slowly a few times. Debbie and Fiona and Lip and Carl have caught up with him, squished on either side of him, but he’s right in Mickey’s line of sight.

“We’re gonna do something a little special right now,” Mandy continues, and Mickey’s stomach lurches involuntarily thinking about what he’s about to do, what he’s about to sing, “We’re gonna play a brand new song that we’ve never done live before! Why don’t you all cheer us on for good luck--” Cheering cuts her off for a second, and Mandy does a little bow. “Thank you! Five, six, seven, eight--”

And they start into the song. It’s a good song. One of their best, probably. It has a great instrumental section in the middle, a well-crafted bridge and a great chorus. It’s just Mickey singing alone during the first verse with Mandy’s piano in the background, and then she drops in to sing the second. And there’s no way that anyone who knows Ian can’t know exactly who it was written about. Mickey sings the first verse with his eyes closed and his fingers wrapped tight around the handle of the microphone stand to stop them shaking. He has to open his eyes to get his hands on the guitar a few seconds before the chorus starts and he glances down towards Ian’s face as he does. He can’t help it.

He looks away just as fast because he’s afraid he won’t be able to make his fingers form the notes. Ian looks like someone has just dumped an enormous bucket of ice water over his head without warning. His mouth is hanging open and his cheeks are pink and his eyes are huge, and all four other Gallaghers are staring at him.

It makes him feel like he’s going to projectile vomit into the crowd, until Mandy’s voice joins his for the chorus. Her voice, a harmony flowing over the top of his words, is a support, a backup, a comfort. He closes his eyes and just sings, holding on to the microphone like it’s the only thing keeping him upright (which could very well be true).

And then Mickey feels like maybe he’s done something right in this, for once, for the first time.

He throws himself into the second verse, hitting the chords a little more enthusiastically, stamping his feet a little in time to the beat as he plays and sings. They hit the middle of the song, Mandy’s keyboard solo, and Mickey drops back a little so she can be heard, strumming a few chords underneath her playing. He hazards a glance back over the heads of the crowd, who are watching Mandy, and then to Ian, who is watching him. One corner of his mouth is curving up and he’s crossed his arms and is shaking his head a little in a happy, exasperated way. It is a pretty ridiculous thing to be watching. Mickey hopes that it’s the most ridiculous thing Ian’s ever seen in his entire life.

He thinks this and watches the left corner of Ian’s lip twist in on itself in a way that’s so familiar to Mickey now, and he scratches out that previous thought in his head and amends it: No, fuck it, this is going to be the most ridiculous thing Ian’s ever seen.

Fuck it, Mickey thinks. Fuck this, fuck this crowd, fuck the overpriced beer being sold at the bar and the no-cursing-onstage rule, and fuck looking professional in front of anyone. Fuck what people are going to think and fuck being scared and fuck family but also thank fuck for family, and fuck his dad and his upbringing and the whole entire city of Chicago too for good measure. Fuck all of it. At this moment, nothing else matters, not a single other person on the entire planet matters except for Ian, and the way the left corner of Ian’s mouth is curling up.

He stops playing his guitar. He stops holding on to the microphone. He stops breathing. And then Mickey does something really crazy.

He steps forward in a rush, like if he doesn’t go all at once his body will realize what he’s planning and act to stop him, steps forward and slides to one knee at the edge of the stage. He bangs his knee on the raised metal edge and almost takes out the microphone stand with his boot in his hurry and when he looks up his face is only a few inches above Ian’s, who is staring at him in alarm.

Fuck it, Mickey thinks one more time. And he bends forward in one go and kisses him on the mouth, curling his free hand into Ian’s shirt collar to stop himself from falling into the crowd.

For half a second Mickey thinks Ian won’t respond, will just stand there with both his hands in the air in shock, but then his mouth moves and he’s kissing Mickey back, hard. His lips are warm and he tastes a little like coffee and toothpaste and something else that’s just the way Ian tastes. Someone has stopped Mickey’s heart, or something, there has to be some explanation for why this second stretches on and on forever because they’re probably only touching for five or six seconds but it feels like a year, like the rest of Mickey’s life, like every single thing he’s done or said or thought, every person he’s met and fucked and fucked over, every breath he’s let out before now has been leading up to this point in time. This is it.

Then time snaps back, speeds right back up because Mandy has kicked him hard in the backside with the heel of her boot and Mickey is jolted back to the present. He hauls himself back to his feet and back behind the microphone and back to the present, feeling too small, missing the contact. The room is silent.

“Uh,” he says into the microphone. He has no idea what else to say, or what to do. The weight of the silence is stifling. Everyone in the room is staring up at the stage at him and Mickey thinks for a minute that maybe he should just up and run.

And then, someone starts applauding.

It’s Debbie, in the front row. She starts cheering by herself, hands over her head and face fierce and determined, and her applause echoes a little before Fiona picks it up, and then Lip and Carl and Mandy a second later and then other people catch on too and the room is suddenly overwhelmed with noise. People are cheering for them, cheering for him, not everyone in the room and there are certainly some people in the audience that don’t look happy, not at all, and Mickey stares out across it, sure that one of those faces is going to be Terry’s somehow. But people are cheering for him. Fiona starts shouting his name and people pick it up and a chant races around the room and people are cheering _for him_.

“Well,” the DJ’s voice crackles in Mickey’s earpiece. “Are you guys gonna keep playing or what?”

Mickey glances over at Mandy and Mandy’s eyes are shiny and bright and she nods, so he clears his throat and grins around at the room and the people, people he doesn’t even know, cheering for him, and he counts them back in. They finish the song. They finish the set

In the front row, Ian doesn’t stop smiling.

* * *

 

As soon as they get off stage and start moving towards their dressing room they’re waylaid by a reporter, someone with Q101. Technically the first thing that happens when they get off stage is that Mandy punches Mickey in the arm, but she barely has time to say anything before a young man with a microphone and a recording device is grabbing them by the arm and steering them to a corner and switching his device on. Mandy barely has time to ask “This isn’t live, is it?” before he starts asking them questions.

“Nope, just recorded! Mandy and the Misdemeanors! You guys just got off the stage-- how do you feel?”

Mickey lets Mandy talk. She gushes about how much fun it was, tells the reporter they’re Chicago natives and they’re so excited to be playing on this station. She sounds good, saying the right thing, so Mickey lets her talk and doesn’t add anything until she says that he writes all their songs and the reporter looks at him.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I do. Write them.”

“And the big question,” the reporter says, and the microphone moves to be pointed right at Mickey’s face. “That kiss! Spontaneous?”

“I didn’t plan it,” Mickey says. It’s really hard not to curse. The reporter doesn’t seem daunted by Mickey less-than-enthusiastic response.

“That your boyfriend?”

“I-- uh-- I don’t know?”

“Hopeful! Now, you said you grew up--” the reporter turns back to Mandy, and Mickey lets out a huge sigh. A few minutes later they wrap up, and Mickey practically drags Mandy away.

“Don’t know why he was asking all those fucking questions anyway,” Mickey snaps as he stomps into their dressing room and slides his guitar over his shoulder. “Why the fuck did he wanna know where we grew up? None of his damn business is what.”

“He’s a reporter, Mick, that’s what they do. We did sorta sign up for this.”

“I’m never doing a gig where I can’t curse onstage ever again,” Mickey says. “I need to just keep at it to up my quota. Fuck. Fuck, fuck!”

Mandy leans against the wall for a second, sighing. “You fucking scared the shit out of me,” she says. “I really thought about just kicking you into the crowd and picking up my career as a solo act.”

“Fuck off.”

“It went good though, didn’t it?” Mandy grins, her whole face alight. Part of Mickey feels like that, effervescent. The other part is beginning to feel really, really nervous. “We sounded good.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, because they did. “We did. Hey, uh, thanks--”

He’s interrupted by a knock on their dressing room door, which immediately makes his nerves jangle. It’s two people with the station, carrying Mandy’s keyboard and some of their other equipment. They clutter up the doorway for a minute, setting stuff down, but when they move out of the way Ian is standing in the doorway. Mickey’s stomach lurches, and he crosses his arms and stares at the floor as Ian hugs Mandy and picks her up off the ground.

“You guys were so good!” He says. Mandy’s reply is muffled a little because her face is buried in his neck. “Like really, really good,” Ian repeats.

“We were, weren’t we?” Mandy says happily as Ian sets her down. “Did you see how big the crowd was? How are you feeling?”

“Still hungover,” Ian says, and Mickey kicks at the heel of his boot with the toe of the other.

“That’s what you get for scaring the shit out of me,” Mandy says.

“Yeah yeah,” Ian says. “Count yourself lucky I got up and got here. I thought I was gonna die this morning. Lip and I had a surprisingly, uh, illuminating conversation and then I drank like three gallons of water and watched Harry Potter movies like a kid with a cold.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Mandy says. She throws one arm around Ian’s neck again and the other snakes out and grabs Mickey, first by the collar and then around the neck.

“Mandy-- fuck-- fuck!” Mickey yelps. His head ends up in Ian’s clavicle as Mandy squishes them together in a haphazard group hug. “Are you trying to kill me?” Mickey barks, escaping from her grip.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Mandy lets go and steps back. “Where the fuck is my girlfriend?”

“She was at your merch table when I walked by,” Ian says. His face is pink and his hair a little mussed and he’s smiling and oh God Mickey is probably going to pass out. Mandy punches both of them on the arm in an irritatingly knowing way and dashes off, and Ian and Mickey are alone.

Mickey coughs, and looks at the floor.

“So,” Ian says.

“What?” Mickey snaps.

“You wrote a song about me?”

Mickey gives him a look that he hopes says _No shit, asshole_. Ian’s face is very serious, a little confused. Mickey feels horrible. Mickey can't tell if he's angry. 

“You wrote a song about me and you sang it in front of a few hundred people, and you didn’t actually know if I’d show or not,” Ian continues.

“And?”

“And then you kissed me.”

“Glad you were paying attention.” Stomach sinking, Mickey looks at the floor again. This hadn’t been a good idea, after all. It had been a terrible one.

“I’m just—well—“ Mickey can’t tell what the tone of Ian’s voice is supposed to be without looking at his face, so he glances up. “I’m marveling, really, at your subtlety. You’re a master of it.” Ian’s face is serious but a muscle in his cheek is twitching, and it dawns on Mickey really fast that he’s trying really, really hard not to laugh.

“You are such an asshole,” he says slowly and Ian keeps talking, his voice wavering a little.

“You know, if had delicacy but you really could have, I don’t know, gotten a tattoo of my face on your chest—“

“Will you shut the fuck up?”

“Coulda utilized the song better too, given it a good title. Something like ‘I like to suck Ian Gallagher’s dick’—“

“Don’t knock it,” Mickey says. “That’s the title of the upcoming album.”

Ian’s whole face is twitching now with the effort of not laughing but he plows on. “Or you could’ve hired one of those skywriter planes to fly overhead and spell it out—“

“Do you ever stop fucking talking?” Ian opens his mouth to continue so Mickey takes the most effective action he can think of to get Ian to shut up; he kisses him. When he pulls back Ian opens his mouth again, so Mickey kisses him again.

And a third time, for good measure.

“Don’t even get all up my ass, I know you fucking loved it,” Mickey says when he can find it in him to stop kissing Ian. They’re hip to hip, Ian’s hands on Mickey’s shoulder and the back of Mickey’s neck, and Ian grins down at him. Ian looks tired, a little worn out. He also looks better than Mickey's ever seen him. Mickey never wants to stop looking at him. Mickey never wants to be farther away from him than this ever again. “I saw your face.”

“You had your eyes closed!”

“Not the whole time, dickhead.”

“Fine,” Ian says. “I’m just pointing out the irony here.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“Well, for someone who claims to be very anti romantic comedies--” Ian says, and Mickey groans. “That was some really ‘Love Actually’ shit.”

“I am never gonna show up under your window with a boom box,” Mickey growls.

“I don’t know!” Ian says. “I don’t think I can believe anything you say every again, and it’s your own damn fault!”

“Why do I even talk to you?” Mickey asks.

“Cause you like me?”

“Yeah, guess I can’t deny that now,” Mickey says and Ian grins. “You still talk too much.”

“Then shut me up,” Ian waggles his eyebrows.

Their chins bump in an ungraceful way and Ian is laughing into his mouth but it doesn’t matter, and Mickey knows that he’s still going to have to find a way to say he’s sorry, but that doesn’t really matter either. Ian’s fingers are tracing his jawline and Mickey gets his hands around Ian’s hips to get himself as close as he can get. Ian is working his fingers under the neckline of Mickey’s shirt when somebody coughs behind them.

“Well,” says Lip Gallagher’s voice. “Guess I’m not needed, then.”

Mickey jerks his head up, a little bit like coming up for air, to see three Gallagher faces crowded in the dressing room door wearing three very different expressions. Fiona is grinning ear to ear. Lip, smoking a cigarette that he’s definitely not allowed to be smoking inside, is wearing a deeply unimpressed expression. And Debbie winks and mouths ‘I told you so,’ to Mickey from behind Lip’s shoulder.

“Nope,” Ian says. “You can fuck off now, thanks.”

"You asked your family to check on you?" Mickey asks skeptically, and Ian rolls his eyes. 

"No, but that's never stopped them. It's all fine, go away!" He says, and Mickey grins. It's all fine. 

“C’mon,” Fiona says and Debbie makes a triumphant noise as she turns around, and Ian bends down to kiss Mickey again.

Lip catches Mickey’s eye over Ian’s shoulder and makes an ‘I’ve got my eye on you’ motion with his hands, so Mickey props his left hand up on Ian’s shoulder and solemnly extends his middle finger in Lip’s direction.

Ian pulls back once he’s sure they’re gone and his face is actually serious and he doesn’t let go of Mickey but Mickey can feel him tense up a little. “Look,” he says slowly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--”

“Me neither,” Mickey says quickly. Ian’s eyes are focused on his face and it’s making him uncomfortably self-aware of what exactly he said yesterday and how that hasn’t really changed.

"It wasn't fair to you," Ian says. "I wasn't very understanding." 

“I didn’t mean what I said, not really," Mickey says. "I’m no good at this stuff, and I got mean. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Ian says.

“It’ll happen again,” Mickey says, and it hurts to say this but it’s worse to lie. “What happened. Me freaking out. It will. Wish I could say it won’t, but--”

“I know that too,” Ian says. “I’m not the easiest person to deal with either. I’m probably too demanding."

"I'm no good at saying what I mean." 

I’m insecure. And pretty self destructive.”

"You okay?" Mickey asks after a second. "Mandy said she came to your rescue." Ian sighs.

"Yeah, my knight in winged eyeliner," he chuckles. "I felt kinda low. But it could have been worse. I just got really drunk. Thought about doing blow but didn't, so I guess that's something."

"Well, I," Mickey coughs. "Thought about fucking someone else, but didn't." He glances away. 

"Congrats!" Ian says, and Mickey stares back up at him. "We both went on benders that weren't as bad as they coulda been." 

"Christ," Mickey says. "That's something to celebrate? We're both pretty fucked up, pop the champagne." 

"I guess so," Ian says. “I still wanna try,” he continues, and Mickey feels a rush of something warm and sudden in his stomach. He nods because he doesn’t really know how else to articulate that feeling other than simple agreement. He does too. Ian’s face indicates that he knows what Mickey means.

“So,” Mickey says after a second, “for the future, I liked you as soon as I met you.”

Ian’s face glows. “I thought you hated me,” he says. "I was convinced you did." 

“Nah,” Mickey says. “Kinda jealous when I thought you were dating Mandy.”

“Really?” Ian’s smile is 10 watts.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Just to set the record straight.”

“Noted,” Ian grins. “Go find Mandy?”

Mickey sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “We should let her know, I guess.” They turn together and step out of the dressing room and back into the crowd. There’s a new band playing, a rap group that sound pretty awesome.

“You did sound really good,” Ian says. Mickey looks up at him and smiles. The warm feeling in his stomach is swelling, like a bubble of lightness in his stomach.

“Thanks man,” he says.

“You wanna go back to your place, or do you want to stick around and listen?” Ian asks.

Mickey glances out across the crowd. For some reason, Debbie and Carl are standing behind their merch table, handing out CD’s and t-shirts to people waiting in line. Mandy is in the middle of the crowd; Mickey sees her dark hair bobbing up and down. She’s dancing enthusiastically with Svetlana. They’re holding hands. Fiona is nearby, dancing and applauding, and Lip is nodding along to the beat. Nobody’s noticed he’s still smoking his cigarette. The crowd is happy, excited, dancing along to the guys onstage. It’s a nice day, warm but not too hot, and the room is sweaty and enthusiastic in the right way.

“Buy me an overpriced beer?” Mickey asks.

“What, they don’t give you free drinks?”

“And I wasn’t allowed to curse onstage.”

"And you want to stick around?" 

Ian snorts. His fingers brush Mickey’s. They’re warm, and his presence is warm, like his mouth on Mickey’s mouth is arm. Mickey watches Mandy’s face light up as Svetlana grabs her around the waist and pretends to dip her like they’re waltzing. They’ve been running away from things for a long time, years. Real physical things but things inside themselves, too. Maybe, Mickey thinks, it’s time to stop running. Maybe it’s time to be still, to stand up, to sort them out. He thinks about telling Ian he’d like to go home, feel Ian’s ribs under his hands and his mouth under Mickey’s mouth. But there will be time for that later. Lots of time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I want to stick around." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THAT'S IT THAT'S THE END!!!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?? i've been working on this thing for months, i can't believe it. i'm tearing up a little posting this, i'm a big ass baby. 
> 
> i thought about actually writing a song for mickey to sing and chickened out. sorry. 
> 
> there are a million and a half things that i wanted to work into this fic that just didn't happen so maybe (MAYBE, NO PROMISES) i'll write more in this universe after i finish this quarter. NO PROMISES. 
> 
> ANYWAY!!! thank you so so so SO MUCH to all of you who have read and commented and sent me great messages and just generally been enthusiastic about folk band au, i've really loved writing it and your support means SO MUCH TO ME. i love y'all. hopefully the end is satisfying and happy (please please tell me what you think when you read it). stay rad all of you <3


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